All Over Again
by Garrae
Summary: "You're still here. I thought… I said I'd call you." Her words hurt him; pierced his carapace of calm. "Yeah. But it sounded like you wouldn't," he said bluntly. "So before I go, answer me just one thing. How much do you really remember?" AU, after Beckett was shot in s3. #Castleficathon2018
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

"Castle, I'm really tired right now."

"Of course." He took a couple of steps towards the door. "Of course. We'll talk tomorrow."

"Do you mind if we don't?"

He jerked to a halt, already falling into the abyss of loss.

"I just need a little bit of time," she said, pleading. It was as well he hadn't confessed. He didn't think he could take this conversation if he'd said everything he'd ducked away from. He forced a smile.

"Sure. Sure. How much time?"

"I'll call you, okay?"

"Sure."

He headed to the door, giving her one last look as he left. She shut her eyes.

As Castle exited, Josh was still there, lurking malevolently outside the door as if he were waiting to pounce on Castle's departure. He didn't look protective at all: more…menacing. Threatening. And in some strange way, as if he wanted to block Beckett from Castle. From…anyone. As soon as Castle had fully exited, Josh skulked back inside.

Wrong it might be, but Castle waited outside the door, unsure why. Eavesdropping was wrong, he knew. Very wrong, but his senses were telling him something was askew. Josh had looked more than usually angry with his presence, his interruption. He listened carefully.

"How long am I going to have to put up with this, Kate?"

"What?"

"That idiot popping up everywhere you go. Following you around like a lost soul. He's got no right" –

"What do you mean?" Beckett's voice was glacial, but Castle could hear the stress fractures of her pain through the ice: crevasses beneath her snow-queen armour.

"He got you shot."

"No. The sniper got me shot." A dragged in breath of infinite pain.

"Not the point. I'm your boyfriend. Not him. I don't want him hanging round you all the time."

Castle listened much harder. Hadn't _Doctor_ Josh Davidson, supposedly intelligent and all round hero, worked out that giving Beckett ultimatums would have much the same effect as lighting a short fuse? God knew, he'd tried it often enough and failed.

"And if I do?" His heart bounded – then fell. She didn't want to talk tomorrow. She wanted time. She'd _call him_.

"It's him or me, Kate. I'm not into threesomes or other men muscling in on my girl."

There was a heavy pause. "It's not you, then. You don't get to tell me what I do or who I see. So go."

Castle thought that Josh hadn't expected that, from the quality of the thick rage leaking round the door. _He_ hadn't expected that. Not in those final, heavy, hurting tones.

"You'd rather have _him_? A page six playboy who's playing at being a cop?"

"Go away, Josh."

"No. Answer me. You owe me that."

"I don't _owe_ you anything. If you can think that – if you think that _now_ , when I'm still hooked up to the monitors in a hospital bed, is the right time to have this discussion because I can't walk away and have to lie here half-dead and listen to you – if you think that, then I was right. Leave. You don't own me. You never did and you never will and I'm tired of you trying to force a choice between you and everyone else. Not just Castle, but everyone. It's not him or you, it's everyone or you. So it's not you. Leave."

Castle could hear the ragged breaths and exhaustion as she finished. She'd used up all her feeble strength in shoving Josh out. Breaking up with him. If only… if only she'd said that she wanted Castle instead. But she hadn't. She hadn't said anything.

"I see," Josh gritted out. "You were just never that into me."

"Neither were you, Josh. Neither were you."

Castle stepped back just in time to avoid having his nose broken when Josh slammed through it and bounced the swing door off the wall. Fortunately, he didn't see Castle there. Another fight would be exactly not what Beckett needed. Indecisively, Castle looked from the door to Beckett's room to the exit corridor, back and forth, back and forth. He peeked through the glass to the small private room, but her head was turned away, towards the heart monitor tracing the regular beat. One, two, three, spike; one, two, three, spike… over and over again.

Finally, he made his decision, and swung the door to her room open. Short, shallow breaths shifted the air around, barely enough to hear. He walked around to arrive on the side her head was facing, but her eyes were shut and she hadn't moved at all as he came in. His flowers were still on her nightstand, along with all the others. Some kind nurse must have arranged them: she – couldn't. Could only sit up with the help of the mechanism in the bed, and plenty of pillows; could barely raise a smile for her visitors.

Everyone had visited, but Beckett wasn't saying much. Her father… that had been the worst. He had been there for the surgery; had to separate Josh and Castle from a free fight in the waiting room – Castle wasn't proud of that, but he also wasn't going to stand there and take it – waiting to hear if he'd lost his daughter to the same issue which had murdered his wife. Jim Beckett; so small, crumpled and indefinably _old_ ; grieving before he even knew the outcome. Jim, an intelligent man, must surely have known that there would be a very long road ahead. No-one was giving any assurance of the outcome. Beckett's brain might be undamaged, but physically – that might yet be a very different story. The bullet had nicked her heart, ripped right through her, and that damage would take a long, painful time to heal.

He stood there, silhouetted against the window and the fading light of the early evening sun, watching over her, and then sat down to wait.

"You're still here. I thought… I said I'd call you."

Her words hurt him; pierced his carapace of calm. "Yeah. But it sounded like you wouldn't," he said bluntly. "So before I go, answer me just one thing. How much do you really remember?"

The scraped gasp recalled him to sense. His gaze dropped to her face: whiter than an instant before, lips pinched, eyes… agonised.

"I see," he said heavily. "You remember enough."

"You… don't _see_ anything," she forced out. "You have no idea what you're asking."

"So _tell me_ ," he demanded. "Tell me why you're pushing me away."

"Because I can't do it with you here." He was still digesting the pain of that strike when she gathered breath to continue. "You'll want to do everything for me and I can't cope with that. I'll let – I won't be strong enough to stop you and every time something hurts _so will you_ and I can't watch that. You have to let me do it myself and you won't. You _can't_."

Her words stopped his protestations cold. He knew that, in the end, she was right. He knew her inside out, but so did she know him, and she knew deep in her bones that he wouldn't, couldn't, watch her in pain. He reached for her hand, and her fingers curled weakly around his.

"See?" she said. "That's all I can manage." Her eyes closed, a crease of pain across her brow, and he brought his other hand around hers.

"It's enough. I get it. I hate it, but I get it." He conjured up a thin, washed out smile. "I would, you know."

"But I wouldn't heal, if you did. Let it be. Let me get better. I have to do it myself." A feeble facsimile of a smile ghosted her lips. "When they unplug me, I'm going up to our cabin with Dad. He… knows not to fuss."

Castle winced, and squeezed inadvertently. Her eyes opened again. "It's quiet. I need the peace. Manhattan's so loud…"

He watched her face contort. "But… I get you need some space… but… will you call?" He hated how needy he sounded, how her expression closed down.

"I…" she turned away again. "I don't know if I can. Without… look, would you promise you won't come if I do? Just talk, and not try to arrive on the doorstep _whatever_ I say?"

He made a small, unplanned whine of distress.

"I have to hold myself up." She swallowed hard. "I _remember_ what you said. I just… have to be strong enough to give it back, and I'm" – another gulp – "I'm not."

His heart cracked.

"You have to be strong enough to let _me_ be strong enough," and tears sneaked out from the corners of her eyes as his heart was made anew.

"It's enough," he said, more definite now with her words to cling to. "Beckett… Kate…. It's enough for now." He raised their still-linked hands to his lips and kissed her fingers lightly. Her eyes had closed again. "Call when you're ready. I promise… it'll be enough."

He sat there, holding her hand as she slept, for a long, long time.

* * *

"Are you sure about this, Katie?" Jim asked for the sixth time. "Wouldn't you rather stay here?"

"No," she scraped out. "I'm sick of the hospital."

"Maybe if you'd let people visit a bit more often you'd have been less bored."

"I told you, I needed some quiet time. They understood. Anyway, I wasn't bored, I was asleep pretty much the whole time."

Jim gave up on that subject. "So did you tell them you were going up to the cabin to rest?"

"Yep."

He supposed that was an improvement on his imaginings. He could just see Katie disappearing off without a single word to anyone, which wouldn't help at all. Bad enough that he'd had to see her hooked up to all the machines, IV lines, transfusions – he rammed the memory down. He had to stay away from the memories… but it was getting harder, not easier. Her friends knew where she was, and what she was doing. She wasn't doing this wholly alone.

Not like him.

Beckett settled back in the passenger seat and let the interstate flow by her unfocused gaze. The boys hadn't been wholly impressed that she was going off to the middle of nowhere – as they had described it, despite her protestations that it was only a half-hour from Roscoe and that Roscoe had everything she'd need – coffee, groceries, gas – and Lanie had been pretty vocal, but in the end everyone had accepted her decision.

Just as well, really. She'd ripped her guts out trying to explain to Castle, and she surely hadn't deserved his understanding, but it meant more to her than he could know or she could say that he would let her do this herself: let her try to be more, stronger before…

She remembered, and when the pain had pierced her, when the nightmares had come, when it had threatened to be too much… she held his words to her damaged heart and let them heal her. She'd make herself strong enough for him, and he knew that she would. It was enough, for now. It had to be, because otherwise, she'd drown in his overwhelming emotions.

For the moment, she'd rely on her father: she could trust him not to overwhelm her. He knew well enough what she was like – after all, he'd had thirty-two years of it to learn. Company, without trying to suffocate her. Besides which, he'd had a pretty nasty scare too, and maybe time together would let them get past it together. Just the Becketts, getting better together, just as they had seven years ago.

"I'm really glad you could do this, Dad," she said.

"You're my daughter, Katie. Of course I can do this for you."

He could. Of course he could. He concentrated on the road and the idiocy of some wannabe NASCAR racer cutting him up, and the gnawing need receded. It didn't return.

They pulled up at the cabin, and Beckett's breath came easier as soon as she eased out of the car.

"That's better," she smiled. "Clean air. Just what my lungs need. Shall we?" She turned in the direction of the trunk, and her father tutted at her reprovingly.

"You're not to carry anything," Jim chided her. "You know that. No physical exertion. Just behave yourself and go inside like a good girl. I can see you leaning on the car."

Katie stuck the tip of her tongue out as she would have done aged six. Jim snickered. "Okay," she growled, but Jim, watching, could see her steps were unsure, and her pace was far removed from her usual brisk stride. Behind her, he shuddered. It had been so close, so very, very close…

But she was still here. His Katie. Still alive.

He pulled the bags out of the trunk and followed his resurrected daughter inside.

Beckett sat down on the couch. The journey had taken more out of her than she'd expected, and she was tired. She wanted to help her father put the bags away, but something about the tightness around his eyes made her stop. That, and that she wasn't sure she actually could stand up quite yet. It would be better if she just took a short rest and didn't try to overdo it. Her exercises and the physical therapy schedule didn't cover baggage handling duties.

"You okay there, Katie?"

"Yeah. Just give me a minute. I never thought watching someone else drive could be so tiring."

Jim frowned at her. "You don't get to drive for another two weeks, remember? So you'd better get used to it."

"Ugh." Her mind wandered off. "What about food?"

"There's enough in the freezer for tonight. If you're up to it, we'll go to Roscoe tomorrow and stock up."

"Okay. So what's for dinner?"

"Fish." Beckett made a face at her father. "Don't look like that. It's all gutted and cleaned already. And don't think you're helping, either. You just stay sitting down and rest."

 _Please, Katie, rest_ , Jim thought. _Don't overdo it. I can't stop you, and I can't deal with a relapse._ He turned to the freezer and started to remove fillets of fish and some frozen vegetables. Katie, amazingly, did exactly what he'd asked. It wasn't entirely reassuring.

Nor was it reassuring when she pleaded exhaustion – which was no word of a lie – after dinner, and struggled upstairs to her room. He heard the small sounds of preparation for sleep, and then nothing through the long evening. He tried to read. It wasn't wholly successful, and his broken sleep was anything but restful, punctuated by nightmares. Each time he woke, he listened, as he had done when she was a new-born: listened to make sure she still drew breath.

She had so nearly never drawn breath again.

Beckett woke late: far later than she'd intended and certainly later than she thought her father would appreciate. She creaked carefully through a shower and changing her dressing: the long slice down her ribs less raw than a week before; the knot between her breasts still livid and raised. For all that, she was _alive_ , if not yet _well_. She would be, though. The clean air of Cherry Ridge Wild Forest seeped into her, the aroma of the forest around the cabin fresh, and faintly she could hear the river running through behind the house. It was summer, and she could sit on the porch and relax, read, talk to her dad.

First, though, she wanted some breakfast. Coffee – that too, but she had been told to limit it to one cup a day, so she could have it at breakfast or later. She opted for breakfast. When she cautiously came downstairs, she caught a flash of terror on her father's face.

"It's okay," she tried to reassure him. "I just need to be careful. The physical therapist said I was to take it easy and not do anything quickly."

"Okay. Sure."

She wished her father looked more convinced than he did. She was being _good_ , for heaven's sake. Doing what she'd been told. She knew she couldn't go headlong at this: she had one single, broad, blue-eyed reason to get better, and she was going to _do it_. Dive right in. Just as soon as she was better. So she was going to do it properly, no matter how much she wanted to push herself harder, hide her pain, pretend it was all fine. She needed to do this properly so that she'd be strong enough. She had to be strong enough.

But still, she wished that her father wasn't looking at her in that terrified, agonised way, as if every step she took jarred him as much as it did her.

* * *

Back in Manhattan, in a large loft on Broome Street, Castle stared at the message on his phone. _Gone to the cabin with Dad._ She had told him she would go. And she had gone. But she had told him first, before she went. Another brief text, a couple of days ago. It was still on his phone, of course. He couldn't delete it: it was all he had to go with the memories. _I remember_. _You have to let me be strong enough_.

He held her words close to his heart and hoped. He would never have believed that it was so hard simply to give Kate Beckett what she needed from him. But then, he'd never seen her bleeding out and broken before him. Never watched her die, and then live again through sheer self-will.

She should have died there. And now she had asked him for something: one thing. _Let me be strong enough_.

He could do that. If she could _not die_ , then he could let her be strong enough, and not go running after her to shield her from every breath of wind, every cloud or drop of rain.

She would be safe with her father, who – she had _said_ so – knew not to fuss.

And when she finally called, he wouldn't need to go running. He could do this. Because she remembered and she'd told him so. Because she wanted to be strong enough to give it back to him.

For that, he could be strong enough to let her be.

* * *

 _As always, thank you to all readers and reviewers._

 _22 chapters. Posting on the usual Sun/Tue/Thu schedule. However, some of you may remember I had eye surgery a while ago. It's time for the other eye to be mended (very standard op, no worries) and that is on Tuesday. I may not feel clear-headed enough to post, but I shall certainly post on Thursday._

 _In more positive news, thanks to everyone who has read my original novel. If you didn't, you are strongly encouraged to get it :) Death in Focus, by SR Garrae, available from Amazon. Have a peek! #shamelessselfpromotion._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Beckett swiftly fell into a rhythm. Well. She forced herself into a pattern, a rhythm. Wake up, eat breakfast with her father, do her exercises; the PT. Every day, she could do just a tiny bit more, add one more step to the tiny distance she could walk. It frustrated the hell out of her, though: how slow and feeble she was, how much energy it took simply to raise and lower her arms a few times.

Her father watched for the first couple of days, grief scraped over his face, as if he were going to lose her all over again, and then he stopped. He took his fishing rod and went out back to the river, maybe – she didn't know – walked the mile to the pond. Somehow, it was easier to do it right without him there. Easier to stop. With her father watching her in that strange, half-frightened way, she had the urge to push herself faster and harder, just to take the expression from his face.

She barely realised her relief when he came back with a fish to clean and gut for dinner: too tired to wonder why she was even a fraction worried. They made a white sauce for it, and then shared ice-cream.

"That was great. Where did you catch it?"

"Down by the pond. I think there are several," her father said happily.

"Big ones?"

"Big enough for dinner."

"Another few weeks and I'll be able to go there too. Bet I can still out-fish you."

"You could not. I taught you to fish." His mouth pinched, exactly – she knew, she'd seen that expression in the mirror – as hers did when worried. "And you're not walking that far till I'm sure you can." She pouted. Jim smiled, suddenly, relieved. "Nope. I'm still your dad. So don't pout at me, Katie Beckett. It didn't work when you were six and it won't work now."

"Did so," she grumbled.

"Did not. Now, shall I make us coffee?"

"You're going to make decaf, aren't you?"

"Yep. One cup of real coffee, and you had it at breakfast." The tension in his shoulders was there and gone so fast that Beckett didn't notice it.

"I guess. Decaf, then," she grumped.

Her dad smiled at her, and everything was fine.

For the first week, she'd slept hard and long, not waking till well into the morning, in bed again before nine and out cold; too tired to think about anything else. After that, though, she was a little more wakeful, which left her father a little more relaxed. He wasn't talking about much, but that wasn't new for them: fish, the warm weather, their meals. All very easy and comfortable; all very fine and dandy.

Right up till she'd been there a week. It had poured overnight, but the sun had been warm and – okay, she'd been so happy to be out in the sun she'd simply _forgotten_ to take care – she'd shuffled as fast as she could, out to enjoy every last sunbeam and do her careful exercises on the grass in front of the cabin.

She'd slipped on the still-wet steps down from the porch and crashed against the ground and _fuck_ it had hurt so much and she'd screamed with the pain: couldn't help it and couldn't help herself, lying there curled around the agony in her chest and the wrist she'd landed on with all her weight.

Her father had come running: picked her up and rushed her to the hospital in Downsville where they X-rayed her wrist and put a plaster cast on the break, checked her wounds, tested her ribs and told her she'd maybe got a hairline crack or two – the vagueness wasn't reassuring at all – and to rest. No PT. No exercises. No movement if she could avoid it.

"And keep the sling on for three weeks minimum," the doctor said firmly. "You need to rest that arm."

"Okay," she acquiesced.

"Katie," her father fretted. "What were you doing?"

"I slipped, Dad. I just slipped coming down the steps and couldn't catch myself. I'm sorry." She winced, hurting and not willing to let the lurking moisture escape her eyelids. "Can we go home, please?"

"Sure. Yes. Let me just get the car. You stay here." She did, too shocked and in pain to move even if she'd wanted to: every time she breathed it lanced across her chest.

Her dad took a little longer than she'd hoped he would, but she assumed he'd had to park a little further away than he'd have liked: the road outside the clinic busy and with No Parking signs all over the main street. He'd ignored them to get her into the clinic, and then gone to park after she was safely in. Nothing to worry about. She ignored the nagging little niggle that she shouldn't even need to think that there was nothing to worry about. Her instincts had been off for weeks, anyway, ever since the night Montgomery had been killed. She was safe now, with her father.

When they reached the cabin, and her father helped her inside, the first thing she realised was that she was going to have some difficulty doing anything at all. The second was that she was in severe need of her industrial-strength painkillers, which led directly to the third issue: that as soon as she took them she would collapse into semi-comatose sleep.

"Dad," she queried uncertainly.

"Yes?"

"Can you" – she squirmed and blushed – "undo the clip of my bra?"

Her father was, if it were possible, even more embarrassed than she was, but he did it. She struggled up the stairs, painkillers in her sore fingers, water glass thankfully already in her room; managed to undress one-handed and perform the most cursory of washes before sliding into bed, taking the elephant sized boluses and plunging out of consciousness.

Downstairs, Jim, still shaking, still seeing the joint memory of Katie fallen and motionless with a bullet through her chest in a cemetery; at the foot of the steps – and for a moment he'd thought it had been another bullet – looked at the purchase he had made. He didn't need it. He didn't.

But he didn't tip it away, either. Instead, he put it in the outbuilding, tucked away. Out of sight, out of mind.

If only it were out of mind.

* * *

In a bar in Manhattan, the gang was together, carefully not talking about the lack of progress on the sniper, and even more carefully not mentioning the likelihood that the new captain of the Twelfth would be a well-known hardass and hater of stray civilians. Instead, they were enjoying a quiet beer.

"Anyone heard from Beckett?" Ryan asked.

"Not yet."

"No."

"Didn't expect to."

"Say what, Castle?"

Castle hadn't exactly meant to say that, but he'd skipped lunch – again – and the beer had hit him rather faster than usual.

"Er…"

"Spill." That was Lanie, in full interrogation mode. She was much scarier than the boys, once she got on a trail. "What's my girl said this time?" She looked as if she expected disaster, or dumbness. Castle guessed that either was a fair assumption.

"We… talked."

Three jaws hit the table. "Talked?" Lanie squeaked. "You never talk."

"Enough already. We talked, okay? She said she was going up to their cabin" –

"Cherry Ridge Wild Forest. Not too far from Downsville or Roscoe."

"If you say so," Castle gritted. "Anyway. She said she didn't know if she'd call."

"And you're not up there on the doorstep?" It wasn't – quite – an accusation.

"She asked me not to."

The others exchanged confused glances. "When's that ever stopped you?"

"This time," Castle bit off. He had no intention of getting any further into that discussion. "So likely she won't call much." He shrugged. "Her dad's up there with her."

"Like that'll keep her out of trouble."

Castle wandered home after they'd vacated the bar, not notably reassured that no-one else had heard either. At least, though, she wasn't calling everyone but him. He supposed that was a good thing, and decided that he was safe to leave for the Hamptons.

Some way into the following day, Castle's phone chirped with a text. _Hey. Doing fine. Sick of fish. KB_. He was immeasurably happier to see it. _Great. Feel free to call anytime. I'm really good at pillow talk._ He didn't expect an answer, and didn't get one, but just to have had a short message was… everything he needed. He bounced through the remainder of the day, grinning like a lovesick fool. Which was fair enough, because that was exactly what he was.

* * *

Beckett felt better for texting Castle, even if it had taken her a good ten minutes to peck out the letters and press Send. Ridiculous, that something so simple should be so hard. She hadn't exactly told the truth, either. She hurt like hell and the skin under the cast itched. Fortunately her father had gone off to fish, because his hovering care for even half a day was beginning to irritate her.

She knew her irritation was completely unwarranted, and that her father was simply looking out for her, but she couldn't cope with being fussed and fretted over, and he was perilously close to doing both. She parked herself on the porch, as far as she could walk right then, with her Kindle, which could easily be read one-handed, growled to herself when she realised that she should have brought out a glass of water, went back in to collect it, wincing with each fragile step, and finally settled herself properly and lost herself in one of Castle's books.

Some hours later, her father returned, fishless but some way more relaxed. She noted it, and was eased herself.

"I didn't even try to move," she pointed out, before he could say a word. "No bounding – or bouncing – down the steps for me." She missed her father's wince and the pain lancing through his eyes: forgetting that he was no cop and wouldn't appreciate the black humour that her colleagues would have accepted.

"I can see that. No fish today."

"Too hot, maybe?"

"Could be."

Jim wandered to the outbuilding to put his tackle away. He felt much better. More… able to cope. He had this. He absolutely, definitely, for sure had this.

A day or three later, he was still sure he had it. Katie was – very cautiously – doing gentle exercises, far fewer than the PT schedule would indicate, but then she had to contend with the weight of the cast, which, he thought, probably doubled or tripled the resistance. She could walk just a little further: it didn't seem that walking from family room to porch was exhausting her as it had on the first days. She seemed to be taking it sensibly. He'd be able to cope with that. He'd got it.

* * *

Beckett didn't think anything at all of her father's fishing trips. He'd always fished, happy to spend days in the sunshine by the pond. It was relaxing him, too. He needed to relax: a little tense every time he looked at her, every time she slept long, every time she breathed a little too deeply and winced; and every arm lift. Her shooting had been very hard on him. Still, he was coping: and maybe he'd needed this trip to the cabin as much as she had.

She didn't start to worry until she noticed the mint on his breath, a further week spent. They'd celebrated the Fourth of July with soda and steaks, barbecued on the small grill with corn cobs and fries. He'd gone to Roscoe to get it all that morning, telling her it was a surprise and if she joined him it would spoil it – and it would have, because he'd also got them a cake and some sparklers in lieu of fireworks.

But mint on his breath had old, painful associations. She pushed the thought away. He'd been dry seven full years now: no reason to change.

Then again, she had never been shot and _died_ before.

A worm of worry wriggled into her gut. But _no_. She wouldn't believe it. He'd been so strong. It was just… he must have been sneaking hotdogs with onions and strong mustard, which he knew she hated. Being kind…considerate. That was all. Nothing to worry about. Not like the damn itch under the damn cast and the pain that still flashed across her ribs if she breathed too deeply; not like the pull of the scar and the fact that she couldn't yet lift her arms above shoulder height – barely above waist height, in fact. Her dad was the one thing she _didn't_ need to worry about.

Until the following evening. She'd come down to collect her painkillers, which she'd left on the kitchen counter, and he hadn't been in the family room. Nor, looking round, had there been a light in the bathroom. She'd padded back upstairs, still having to be so horribly careful, as any incautious step jabbed through her chest, and as she'd reached her room the outside door had opened, and shut, and her dad's footsteps had tapped across the wooden floor to the rug.

She didn't go back down, and in the morning, she didn't ask about it.

"I'm going to sit out this morning," she said the next day. "Get some colour. I might even take a walk – very short," she added quickly as his face drained ashen. "Promise I won't go more than a hundred yards." He smiled, weakly. "I won't. I know I can't go far."

"Okay. Now, since you broke your wrist specifically to get out of doing any washing up," he grinned, though it was still weak, "I guess you'd better go and enjoy the sunshine while I slave away at the sink."

Beckett wanted to race down the steps and take a long hike into the woods. In deference to her father's worries and her own common sense, she took the stairs with extreme care and at a speed which a half-dead snail would have had no difficulty in exceeding, at which pace she continued into the woods. One hundred yards in, she stopped in a clearing, cautiously sat down without putting weight on her damaged wrist, and simply enjoyed the woods: the sounds of small birds; a woodpecker knocking on the trunk of a tree; and the rippling of the stream in the background. Time passed without her noticing or caring.

A sudden crack startled her, and she jumped. When she settled again, she told herself that it was foolish to be startled by a snapping branch, since there were plenty of those in the forest. She eased herself up, creaking slightly, and made her way back to the cabin. Even that short walk was still tiring.

Her father had left her a brief note. _Gone fishin'_ , it said, and she grinned at the lack of grammar. She made herself a coffee – decaf, ugh – and sat in the comfortable swing seat on the porch till it had been drunk and she wasn't so physically tired.

And then she went to the outbuilding and searched through it until she was completely satisfied that there was not a single drop of alcohol there. She went back to the porch, and breathed out her guilt at her suspicions; trying to remove the niggle from her mind. There was _nothing there_.

* * *

At the pool, rod planted firmly in the soft soil and fly trailing enticingly across the water from the hook, Jim sat and stared into the middle distance. He couldn't stop seeing his daughter's bloodstained body on a gurney, the medical staff frantically working on her to save her leaking life. His hands twisted together, and his eyes flicked from rod to rippling water to his pack. He'd have been okay if she hadn't slipped and fallen; if her shriek hadn't mirrored Rick Castle's agonised cries; if he hadn't, taking her to the clinic here, been so violently reminded of the screeching ambulance and his frantic efforts to get to that hospital.

He couldn't forget either. He couldn't sleep. He simply needed a little help to sleep. Just for the moment. He could stop any time, and he would. But here and now, he needed a little… extra.

Shortly, he eased, the terrible visions receded, and he sat back, dreamily contemplating the pond and the wavering rod. _See_ , he told himself, _it's fine. I'm in control_. His eyes slipped shut, he lay back in the sunshine, his battered fishing hat tipped down over his face, and shortly he was sound asleep.

Hours later, he woke, roused by the cooling air of early evening. He sucked hard on a breath mint as he packed up, horrified that he'd slept so long. But it was fine. He'd often spent long days at the pond, fishing. Katie wouldn't be worried. His enticing fly was still on the hook, so he could truthfully say that not a fish had bitten. He didn't want to lie to Katie, but he didn't want to worry her with his troubles either. He'd just manage alone. It was only temporary, after all. She'd never need to know.

He plodded back to the cabin.

"Dad, where were you? You've been out for hours."

Jim conjured up an embarrassed half-smile. "I guess I'm getting old," he said. "I fell asleep in the sunshine."

Katie examined him. "You're a bit burned," she agreed. "If you're going to do that, better take some sunscreen tomorrow."

He didn't notice her assessing glance as he turned to put the tackle away, nor her worried frown. By the time he turned back, she'd smoothed them both away.

Beckett, unusually, didn't know what to do. She could hardly take a twilight stroll – not without shredding her father's nerves – and she certainly couldn't explain. However, she was very, very worried. Her father wasn't that old – he wasn't even sixty, for heaven's sake – and he certainly hadn't used to fall asleep in the sunshine. But. But it was hot out, and he had been pretty stressed out, understandably, and maybe he hadn't been sleeping well for the last few weeks. Her sleep had largely been induced by knockout painkillers, but her dad hadn't had those.

So she left it, and set the table for dinner one-handedly and awkwardly, and tried to ignore her feelings. She must have succeeded, because her father didn't seem to notice a thing. Paradoxically, that made her more worried.

Suddenly, she had an idea. She could talk to Castle. His penchant for ridiculous theories would give her lots of reasons for her equally ridiculous paranoia. Besides which, now she thought of it, she _wanted_ to talk to him. She didn't need to mention the extra injuries, of course. That would only worry him. In fact, she needn't mention any of her worries. She could just have a comfortable, friendly conversation.

She considered her idea for a while, and found it good, and then, a tiny tad nervous – it had been almost a month since she'd actually _talked_ to him, or seen him, though she had texted – picked up her phone and dialled his number.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

 _Thank you all also for the good wishes. All went well. There may be a delay responding to reviews, though!_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"Beckett!" Castle bounced happily. "You called!" He was quite delighted by her contact, which he hadn't at all expected. "Are you okay?" he suddenly asked, no longer bouncy, because why else would she have called?

"Hey, Castle. I'm fine. I just…"

"Mm?"

"I-just-wanted-to-talk-to-you," she blurted out.

"Okay then. What shall we talk about?" He pondered for a split second, and decided on his go-to strategy whenever Beckett sounded even slightly stressed: flirtation. "Your busy social life?"

"What, the squirrels? Yeah, Castle, they're really good company. A bit nuts, though."

He guffawed. "Nice one. How about the fish?"

"You remembered?"

"Sure. You said you were sick of fish."

"If I eat any more fish I'll turn into a mermaid."

"Ooooohhhh," he said annoyingly. "I'd like that. You in a skimpy bikini…"

"Are you still thirteen?"

"No, but I have a _very_ good imagination. And I've seen you in a swimsuit." He hummed lasciviously. "I certainly wouldn't mind seeing it again."

"Mind out of the gutter."

"It's not in the gutter. It's in a pool." He was looking at the pool, from the deck of his Hamptons house. "Or the breaking waves, like that Botticelli picture…."

"The Birth of Venus? Castle! That's totally inappropriate."

Castle didn't agree. In his fantasy world, Beckett imitating the famous artwork would be totally appropriate – and very much appreciated. Beckett's sigh, however, sounded very much as if her eyes were rolling. He backtracked.

"But it's cheered you up. Much better than fish." He heard a disgruntled mutter. "Anyway. How are you?"

"Fine."

There was an odd undertone to that.

"Are you?"

"Yeah…" but now there was definitely an _I'm-not-so-sure_ flavour. Castle waited. And waited. "I think the painkillers are making me a bit paranoid," she blurted.

"Er-urgh?" Castle emitted, incoherently.

There was another uncomfortable silence. "I jumped at a snapping branch," she admitted. Castle was absolutely certain that that wasn't what she had first thought of, nor did he think it was anything like what she had intended to say. He parked the point.

"Not really surprising," he soothed.

"Huh?"

"Um… it probably sounded a bit like a shot?"

"Oh. Yeah, I guess. But it wasn't." He heard her breath gush out, and an indefinable tension receded. "I hadn't thought of that. Those painkillers are really slowing me up."

"Why are you still on painkillers that strong? I thought you said you'd be off them after a week or so, and you've been up there three weeks already."

He would have sworn he could hear Beckett squirming guiltily. "Beckett?" Promise be damned, he needed to know what was going on. "What happened? What aren't you telling me?"

"I slipped," she said evasively. "So they gave me some stronger drugs."

"They?" Another extended, guilty pause. "Look, just tell me. Your dad's up there with you so you aren't trying to do it all alone. I won't come dashing up. I said I wouldn't and I meant it – though," he added thoughtfully, "if you asked me to come I would. To see if you've turned into a mermaid, of course."

Beckett snickered, though it still sounded a little forced. "No mermaids. No fish tails. No silly supernatural entities which don't exist."

"You'd make a lovely were-panther," Castle mused. "All sleek and deadly."

"Castle! There are no such things."

"How do you know? You can't prove there aren't."

"Just because you've been watching True Blood late at night again…"

He huffed. "I do not."

"You _so_ do."

More huffing, but she'd got him there. Of course he did. But… she was very cleverly trying to distract him. "Stop evading, Beckett. What happened?"

"I slipped."

"And?" It was like pulling teeth.

"I banged my arm a bit when I fell."

"Beckett, if you don't tell me the whole story I'll ring your dad and ask him."

"Don't do that!" she gulped, with a very odd note of complete panic, which only served to panic Castle. "Okay. Bully."

He relaxed a little. "Am not."

"Are so. Bully."

"I don't bully. That's such an ugly word. I could dominate, if you'd like that, though I think you might like to be on top…"

"Castle!"

"Oh, you would like it? Any time, my dear Detective. Any time. Top or bottom. I'm easy."

"You sure are."

"And you love me for it," he oozed suavely.

"Behave."

"I don't like behaving. Misbehaving is so much more fun."

"You have a one-track mind."

"No, I'm a modern metrosexual. I can multitask. Though not when I'm concentrating on" –

"Shut up, Castle."

"So tell me the story." He was determined to get the story. If nothing else, he was absolutely certain she was minimising. Again.

"Okay, okay. Stop _fussing_." He stayed silent. "I slipped on the steps and fell on my wrist. It jarred my ribs a bit."

"What did the doctor say," Castle asked with some resignation and plenty of intent to receive a straight answer.

"I broke it," she growled. "And cracked a rib."

"Beckett! Can't you stay out of trouble for a moment?"

"You're not my dad, Castle," she snapped, instantly aggravated. "Don't try telling me off like that."

He hadn't meant to: it had simply been a word-vomit of his innate horror that she'd managed to damage herself even more when she was supposed to be getting better.

"Sorry. Can I sign your cast?" he tried.

But the easy conversational back and forth had gone. Beckett had retreated into her normal closed-off self, and in the discomfort and awkwardness his instinctive reaction had produced, Castle rapidly forgot that she'd been unwontedly panicked about any suggestion that he might talk to her father.

"Night," she said, closing off the call.

"Till tomorrow," Castle answered automatically, and didn't realise until the line went dead that _tomorrow_ could easily be another month away. He really hoped not. He also hoped that he could keep his promise not to go haring up to the forest cabin in which Beckett was supposedly recuperating, because if anything was clear to him, it was that her father wasn't exactly keeping her safe. He wondered if a delivery of half a ton of cotton wool would be excessive, and only after some deliberation decided that it would be.

* * *

Beckett cut the call in a cloud of irritation. It had all been going well, too. Why'd he have to react like he was her dad? She didn't want Castle to be her freaking _dad_. Ugh. She certainly didn't want to be told off. It had been an accident.

She grumped her way through an abbreviated, one-handed bedtime routine, harrumphed at the plastic over her cast as she showered, and flumped into bed, distinctly cross.

Cross was replaced by outright terror as she heard the outer door open and close. It didn't reopen for almost half an hour. She determined that in the morning, she and her father had to talk.

"Dad," Beckett opened over her breakfast caffeinated coffee.

"Yes, Bug?"

"Can I come fishing with you today?"

Beckett had planned her tactics carefully. First, try to go fishing. If she was with him, then he couldn't be drinking. She ignored the sore place in her chest and the unpleasant feeling that she was going behind his back rather than asking outright.

"There's no way you're up to that long a walk, Katie. You're still wincing every time you put your foot down too hard when it hits your ribs, and you said that even a hundred yards made you tired. How are you going to manage a mile? Just take it easy for another few days." He was perfectly smooth and relaxed: no fright or panic.

If only she didn't remember the first time. He'd always been smooth and relaxed then too. Lied with a clear expression and no guilt. All her investigative talent told her he was lying now, and her heart quailed. Since her first tactic had failed, now she'd have to go to the second. Search. Quite what she was going to do when – no, if, it had to be _if_ – she found the booze, she didn't know.

"Okay," she replied compliantly. "In that case, I'm going to sit in the sun with my coffee." She paused mischievously. If he could act, well, so could she. "Well out the way of flying soap suds."

As soon as she shut the door behind her, she left her coffee cup on the porch, took the steps as fast as she dared, and headed for the outbuilding. Once there, she swiftly searched her father's fishing bag.

Oh, _fuck_.

She pulled out the small bottle of Jack Daniels. Only a little was missing: maybe five or six mouthfuls.

One mouthful would have been too many. Having the bottle at all was too much.

She carefully put it back exactly where she'd found it, so shocked that she couldn't even bear to open the cap, and trudged back to the swing seat and her cooling coffee. Now what?

By the time her father wandered out to tell her he was off to catch a fish, she hadn't reached any conclusions. She waved him off, and relapsed into frozen terror. This was all her fault. She'd been shot, and then fallen, and he couldn't cope with it. What was she going to do about it?

* * *

In the same position as the day before, Jim pulled out the bottle and sat it beside him. It could just sit there. He didn't need to open it. He only needed to know that he had it.

Consequent upon another disturbed night, he drifted, dozing – and was jerked awake by another nightmare of the crumpled, agonised wreck of his daughter. He didn't even try to resist unscrewing the cap, or taking a mouthful. Only one mouthful. That was all. He didn't need more.

He stared bleakly over the pond. Katie would be so upset if she knew… but she wouldn't know. She couldn't know. He thought about leaving the bottle here, where she'd never find out: scraped up a patch of earth and made a hole… but then he remembered the lonely evenings, and the memories, and the nightmares…. He needed it nearby. Only to know that it was there, of course. He didn't need to open it.

He slowly dissolved his worries in the sun and the play of light flickering over the water, almost hypnotic, beguiling. He allowed himself to be beguiled.

A long while later the rod jerked and he startled back to life, reeling in the fish without thought. Horrified, he realised that the golden, alluring taste of whiskey was coating his mouth. He leaned over the pond and vomited, thin, acid fluid polluting the water; recriminations polluting his head. He didn't even stand up till he'd crunched through two breath mints, rinsing his mouth between them, trying to wash away his shame.

But he couldn't quite force himself to pour away the remainder of the bottle, and all the way along the trail back he berated himself for his weakness.

* * *

Beckett was no nearer an answer at the end of the day than the beginning. She'd fretted the entire time, terrified that her father was falling all over again: the booze and the blackouts and the tank. She couldn't cope: not half-healed herself, a broken wrist, the still-present pain in her ribs and radiating from the two scars: death and life together written on her skin and both of them hurting. She couldn't have said which was worse, but then, nothing could be worse than her father falling all over again.

When he strode up, his step was steady and his gait regular: no wobble or weaving or stagger or stumble. Somehow, it wasn't reassuring. But surely, Beckett thought, if he were drinking, there would be some sign, some flaw. Maybe… maybe she had been wrong. Maybe it had just been apple juice, in an old bottle. She hadn't uncapped it, smelt it, or tasted it. Maybe she had simply jumped to conclusions: cop habits leading her straight to the worst-case scenario.

Maybe she'd got this all wrong.

But deep inside, she knew she was only putting off the issue: not wanting to hurt her father's fragile feelings; not wanting to provoke a fight when she was almost entirely dependent upon him to help her. If he were to take offence, or leave, she would be stranded. Not that he would ever do that, of course.

Still, even deeper inside, she remembered that he had abandoned her once before, for amber whiskey and oblivion. That had been after a murder, too, and while she was not, through grace of God and Castle's hard hands pressing down to staunch the spurting blood, dead – she had, nevertheless, died. Cold chills slithered through her, despite the late afternoon's summer heat. Her father hadn't dealt well with the first loss.

 _But he hasn't lost me_ , she argued with herself. _He hasn't, so there's nothing to deal with_.

And that was another lie. He had plenty to deal with. Just as she did: the startlement from a snapping branch, the occasional jump when there was a reflection from the rippling river. She knew – hadn't Castle pointed it out? – that it was merely a hangover from being shot: flash of rifle, crack of shot. She was working past it. Slowly.

Just like her father must have been working past it. Another pang of bitter guilt for her stupidity in slipping on the steps washed through her. If she hadn't fallen… it was only after she had fallen that she'd noticed the breath mints.

But she couldn't raise the subject tonight. If she was still suspicious tomorrow, then she would say something. Quite what she would say, she didn't know. She trailed inside, and slowly set the table as her father cooked; pleaded tiredness and went to bed early.

Going to bed, of course, didn't mean that she could sleep. She didn't: first waiting to hear the soft steps and the opening and closing of the door, the pause, the re-opening and re-closing late in the evening; and, when that had passed, sheer worry kept her from slumber till long into the small hours.

She woke far later than she had hoped, and on descending found breakfast laid for her and a short note. _Gone to town. Back soon._

She amused herself (or not) by undertaking all her exercises, and somewhere in the burn of effort, had an idea. If she could look after herself, then she could have a frank discussion with her father and not worry about him leaving. Not that he would, she firmly told herself, but then it really wouldn't matter. And of course, she had her phone, so if the worst came to the worst, she could call a cab to get her back to Downsville or Roscoe and then arrange transport from there.

It occurred to her that – if worst came to worst – she could call Castle. She firmly put that idea out of her head. It was simply too attractive, and if she once started leaning on him to solve all her problems when she was in no position to resist, she'd let him do it all the time and then she'd drown in her own weakness. That just was not an option.

She let herself sniff, precisely twice, wiped her stupidly tearful eyes, and told herself extremely firmly that she was totally overreacting to something that wasn't even necessarily real. She followed that up with a stern lecture on how nobody ever solved their problems by merely cuddling into a broad chest, which even her cynicism could not quite manage to deliver sincerely. She would really like said broad chest. Right there, right then. But he couldn't help. Her father's probably-non-existent issues were their problem, not Castle's.

Maybe she'd call him that evening, anyway. His particular brand of insanity would undoubtedly cheer her up. The flirting wouldn't hurt, either. She didn't exactly feel particularly desirable right now, but Castle always managed to be inappropriate and, well, it was very nice to feel wanted, especially with a red, angry carbuncle in her cleavage and a scarlet scar up her ribs. And the cast. She couldn't exactly miss that, either. Not sexy.

Just as she was clearing her dishes, her dad walked in.

* * *

In Roscoe, which Jim regarded as a small hick town without many (or any) advantages except for an excellent fishing tackle store, he parked up and went to the supermarket. While stocking up on ice-cream, coffee, and vegetables, he spotted both clear apple juice, which closely resembled his whiskey, and the liquor shelves.

He turned away. He shouldn't be thinking what he was thinking. But it nagged at his mind. He didn't want to worry Katie, and as soon as she was better he would stop. Of course he would. It would be for her own good, really. She wouldn't heal as quickly if she were worrying about him, so she shouldn't have to worry about him.

He put one bottle of clear, golden apple juice, one of water and one small (it was only small: it wasn't like he was going to drink all, or even any, of it) bottle of Jack Daniels into his cart; finished the rest of the shopping and went out to the parking lot to load it into the trunk and drive home.

Halfway to the cabin, he pulled over in a lay-by. He drank most of the bottle of water, and tipped the rest away; poured the whiskey into the now-empty bottle, rinsed the whiskey bottle with a little apple juice, poured that out – see, he _could_ pour it away – and then tipped the apple juice into the whiskey bottle. He put everything back in the trunk, got home, and then replaced the whiskey bottle in his fishing bag with the apple juice filled one.

But then he hid the whiskey in the outbuilding nonetheless. He couldn't, just couldn't, throw it down the drain. He reminded himself that he'd replaced the alcohol with apple juice, which proved, absolutely proved, that he was in control.

Jim trotted up the steps to the cabin, a little confused that Katie wasn't on the porch, and found her stacking her breakfast dishes in the sink.

"I got us more ice-cream," he said. She jumped.

"Dad!"

"I went to Roscoe to the supermarket and stocked up." He started to unpack. Katie left her dishes, which he would no doubt need to wash since she wasn't allowed to get the cast wet and – based on her childhood behaviour – she would do just that in order to escape the plaster, and peered over his shoulder to see what he'd bought.

"Coffee," she noted happily.

"I thought I remembered that you could have more real coffee."

"Yep. Two whole cups a day now." She looked more closely. "Vegetables."

"You need your vitamins."

"Stop mother-henning me. I take vitamins."

"In tablet form." Jim raised an eyebrow and in that moment resembled his daughter very closely.

"I'm not in the box. Stop cross-examining. My diet is fine."

Jim smirked evilly. Katie growled, which didn't affect him at all. "Now it'll be better. Natural." More growling. "Let's have lunch, and then I'll go fishing."

"It's too early for me to have lunch."

"Just like when you were fifteen. You never got up in the morning then either. Well, I was up early so I'm hungry."

He made himself a sandwich, munched it happily, and then betook himself to collect his fishing kit. He thought that it might be better not to annoy Katie any more. She'd already despatched herself to the porch.

Beckett had, in fact, despatched herself to the outbuilding, rapidly found the bottle in the fishing bag, and, with a sinking feeling of horrible inevitability, unscrewed the cap to sniff at it.

It was apple juice. She couldn't believe how relieved that made her – and then how horribly, horribly guilty she felt for doubting her dad. She practically bounced back to the porch, so that he'd never work out that she'd been a nasty, suspicious daughter. Just as well she'd never raised the subject. She'd have upset him so much, and all for nothing: unwarranted paranoia. She wouldn't make that mistake again.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers: named, guest, old and new. Very much appreciated._


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"Hey, Castle."

"Beckett!" Castle recovered some game, not wanting to reveal his total confusion. "What an unexpected surprise."

"Yeah. Um." Which also didn't tell him much, but sounded relatively – well, not unhappy.

"What are you doing?" he oozed, reverting to heated flirtation, which would cover any residual discomfort – and at that distance, wouldn't get him maimed or shot. Probably.

"Flipping my flukes," Beckett flashed back.

Castle chortled. "You remembered?"

"It was only a couple of days ago."

"That's so sweet that you remember what I said" – and then he stopped hard, because after all, he'd said something a lot more important than teasing her about being a mermaid in disguise, and she'd remembered. "Um… what colour are your scales?"

"I thought you'd be more interested in the bikini. You were last time."

For possibly the first time ever, Castle was grateful for a Beckett evasion and her ability to ignore anything that might be meaningful. "I still am. What colour is it, and will you send me a selfie? I want proof that mermaids exist." He could almost hear the roll of her eyes.

"Just kidding," she said sardonically. "No mermaids. No tail. No bikini."

"No clothes?" he suggested.

"Clothes."

"Awwwww." He rapidly stopped that chain of thought as it became – er – constricting. "Anyway, what would you like? Chat? Gossip? Spoilers for the next novel – don't say yes, Gina would kill me. Visits?"

"Chat. Dad's gone fishing."

"And you're bored."

"Yeah. I can't do anything and Dad won't let me anyway," she grumped. "He worries too much."

"It's a dad thing. We're programmed to worry about our daughters."

"Yeah, well. At least I don't have to worry about him now."

"Mmm?"

Beckett stopped. She hadn't meant to say that, but… aarrgh.

"Why were _you_ worried about _him_?"

Any moment Castle would put two and two together and certainly get an accurate four. Beckett bit the bullet.

"I thought…but I was wrong, okay? It was just apple juice in an old bottle. Just as well I checked before I started on him. He'd have been so upset that I didn't trust him."

Castle kept his mouth very firmly shut. He had a sudden, pinpoint sharp memory of Jim's devastated, terrified face in the ER waiting area. He also had a very healthy respect for Beckett's instincts, and he felt strongly that she must have subconsciously picked up something that made her suspect him. Lastly, he wasn't unaware of all the methods drinkers chose to hide their drinking, and most of them were quite smart enough to switch bottles. At least initially. He parked the problem for the time being, because happy Beckett was much nicer than miserable Beckett, and anyway he liked talking to her a lot more than he'd like her putting the phone down to fret about her father. He decided simply to keep the point at the back of his mind, and, as ever, solved the current problem by reverting to flirtation.

"Well, you're reassured now," he rumbled. "Don't worry about it. Talk to me instead. I'm much less worrying. What shall we talk about?" He paused, briefly. "I know. Where would you like to go for dinner when you get back?"

"What?"

"Dinner. You, me, nice restaurant."

"Remy's."

"No," Castle said, offended. "Somewhere nicer. I wanna take you for dinner, 'cause you never let me drive."

"What has not letting you drive my car got to do with taking me for dinner?"

"You won't let me drive, so you should let me take you for dinner."

"That doesn't make any sense at all."

"It doesn't have to. You just have to tell me what you'd like for dinner. Of course," he added annoyingly, "if you're going to keep falling down stairs then it might need to be something you can eat one handed, and somewhere that doesn't have any stairs."

Beckett gleeped indignantly, which had no effect whatsoever on Castle except to cause snickering.

"Actually, if you only have one working arm that would be an improvement. You couldn't tweak my nose or ears or shoot me."

"If you didn't annoy me I wouldn't have to."

"Beckett, Beckett," he oozed. "I can think of _lots_ of ways I wouldn't be annoying you. But let's start them off with a date. It's traditional."

"Say what?"

"Start with a date. I mean" – he went for broke – "you already kissed me, which is totally the wrong way round since you haven't taken me on a date, so you should make up for your untraditional behaviour by coming on a date with me."

"Why would I want to come on a date with you?"

"Well…" he dropped into a sex-suffused velvety growl, "you would have an excellent meal, during which you'd experience my excellent company, and then I would squire you home – I have excellent manners" – Beckett emitted a muffled squawk which Castle magnificently ignored since he knew his manners were superb – "and…" – she squawked again – "then we could do whatever took your fancy."

"I know exactly what would take my fancy," she husked. Castle stood instantly to attention, as it were. That tone went straight to his groin without bothering to infiltrate his ears. Still, he knew that she'd confuddle him. She always did. "Smooth, rich" – stop it, Beckett, stop that leisurely, lascivious tone right there – "strong" – oh God, surely she would say _coffee_ next – "coffee." She did.

"I can surely manage that." His baser instincts won out. "I like cream" – the twine of his tongue around that should have had him arrested for indecency – "with my coffee. The softness of it on my lips and tongue is unmatchable. I love the sensation of it slipping into my mouth and the taste. I'd be very happy to share…coffee and cream… with you."

There was silence, for a second. "Good," she said briskly, though he was sure she was blushing, which was always adorable. "I'll get creamer from the store."

"And strawberry lip balm."

"What?"

"Well, if you're going to kiss me without any warning again" –

"What?"

"I like strawberry flavour better than mango."

"I never kissed you."

"Did so. What was that back alley all about if it wasn't kissing me?"

"You kissed me first."

"Yep, and you liked it so much that you kissed me back and then pounced on me without so much as an excuse-me." There was an infuriated screech, swiftly cut off. "You could do it again, anytime."

That time the screech was not cut off. " _Pounced_ on you? I did _not_. If anyone was _pouncing_ it was you. You were the one who stopped me drawing my gun and hauled me against you and kissed me."

"And then you kissed me back. You _liked_ it." There was a thoroughly embarrassed silence. "You did," Castle said smugly. "I knew it." A strangely strangulated noise passed through the connection.

"This is a dumb discussion."

"You mean you agree and you won't admit it."

"No!"

"See, you agreed you won't admit it."

"That's even dumber."

"I really love these painkillers you're on. So far you've agreed to come out to dinner, buy strawberry lip balm, and that you like me kissing you. I'll make a reservation as soon as you tell me when you're coming back to Manhattan. In the meantime…"

Her phone pinged. "…till tomorrow, Beckett." Castle cut the call, and smirked at the e-mail he'd simultaneously sent from his laptop.

Beckett looked at her phone, and squawked again. He'd sent her a kiss emoji. She had a very odd warm sensation in her chest when she looked at it. She also felt much happier. She grinned evilly at her phone, and sent him back a picture of a porcupine, just so that he wouldn't become complacent.

It was all okay. Her fears were groundless, talking to Castle had cheered her up immensely – simply his casual assumption that seeing her in a bikini or indeed without clothes was infinitely attractive had improved her mood – and the sun was warm on her back. Really warm. She could, in fact, sunbathe. She wandered back inside, found a very minimalist tank and skimpy shorts, and disposed herself in the sunshine, turning over occasionally and happily perusing a book.

* * *

Castle thought about the heat and humidity of Manhattan with disfavour. He was really quite relieved that Beckett wouldn't be back there soon: he was sure the city summer wouldn't help her heal. Clearly, the best place for him to be was right there in the Hamptons, since he couldn't go to Cherry Ridge Forest. Especially, he couldn't go because he didn't actually know where to go, and there was quite a lot of forest to search. He wished that he'd put _find my iPhone_ on Beckett's phone. Not that that would have been creepy or anything. Much.

He was just about to wander out to his nice warm swimming pool, in which he could waste inordinate lengths of time in contemplating how beautiful Beckett would look there: sleekly soaked and bikini-clad, when his e-mail pinged.

It was a picture of a porcupine, from Beckett. He laughed out loud, and wondered when she'd learned that particular variant on a frat song. Still, she wasn't going to be a porcupine for him. No, no, no. She'd be…mmmm… purring. Soft and lax and purring and snuggly-gorgeous. He wouldn't let her be a porcupine. Well, maybe not all the time. He'd miss it if she stopped snarking and rolling her eyes at his whimsy.

Thinking of whimsy… he searched the web for a few moments, found a picture of Lorelei, and sent it back to Beckett. _How to dress for dinner by the pool,_ he wrote.

She didn't reply, but then, he hadn't expected her to. Besides which, he was several points to the good, starting with the promise of a date and very definitely continuing with the acceptability of kisses. Et cetera. He sauntered out to the pool with a cold drink and some very heated sentiments. His life could only have been better right now if Beckett were there.

* * *

Beckett lazily turned over and reluctantly accepted that she'd had enough sun: at least if she didn't want to resemble a boiled lobster. She eased off the lounger and sought out a cold soda, which improved matters.

Right up until she noticed the time. It was already well after six p.m., and her dad wasn't back yet. That was… scary. He'd taken care to be home around five each evening, so that he didn't leave her alone for too long.

To take her mind off it, she first set the table for dinner, and then, when he still hadn't appeared, started to investigate the fridge, freezer and cupboards. (If she'd been at home, she'd have called for pizza.) She ignored the fish. She'd had enough fish already, and whatever Castle might have murmured about mermaids (a little coil of heat wriggled in her stomach) she really didn't want to grow fins and a tail.

She found some chicken and tossed it into a pan to fry: it could cool and then she'd make a salad with it; and tearing up lettuce, chopping radishes and making a spicy satay sauce dressing wasted time and kept her mind off her father's continued absence.

When she had finished, it was after seven. She still didn't hear anything that might be footsteps. She thought for a few seconds, and then hunted out a flashlight. Sunset would be at around eight-thirty, but under the trees it would be gloomy long before that. She could only imagine that her father had fallen asleep again, but just in case (she cringed at what just in case might mean: a fall, a sprain – but not alcohol. It was apple juice. She'd checked) she'd go down the trail towards the pond. It wasn't that far, and there were no problems with her _legs_. Quite what she would do if her father needed help, she didn't know and didn't consider.

Beckett picked up the torch, automatically put her phone in her pocket, automatically reached for her gun, made a very unpleasant noise as she remembered that she didn't actually have her gun because she was benched and started carefully along the track to the pond. A mile was no distance at all. She could walk it easily. Even if she hadn't walked nearly that far for over a month, how hard could it be?

A third of the way along, she had realised that a mile was only no distance at all if she was in full health and at full fitness. Neither was currently true, and she was already struggling. Five hundred yards was about three hundred more than she'd walked in one stretch since she got there. She sat down in the gloom on the first stump she came to, and tried to think straight.

She considered her already-biting exhaustion, and rapidly concluded that she was _not_ going to make it to the fishing pond and then home again. The real question was whether she was going to make it home from where she was. She had never, ever thought that she was still that weak. That was a huge problem that she would have to address in short order. But there and then, she needed to get home. Both of them being stuck in the woods was a really terrible idea. She pulled out her phone, and tried to ring her father. It went to voicemail.

She hauled herself off the stump and started to trudge home, barely able to pick her feet up. She reached the cabin through sheer, concentrated, vicious will-power, staggered up the steps, and collapsed into the swing seat.

She knew what she had to do. She simply hated that she was going to have to do it: imprisoned by her own weakness. She dialled the number of the state police in Roscoe, and explained. As she had expected, they weren't hugely interested, given that he hadn't been missing for more than a couple of hours, but they told her that the fishing got good when the sun was setting and to call again if he wasn't home by ten. None of it helped her barely-contained panic, and she couldn't even tell them that her father was likely drinking, because she _knew_ it was only apple juice.

It took her another ten minutes to be able to rise and enter the door, and another ten before she could so much as contemplate the salad. That eaten, she stumbled upstairs and fell into bed, cursing her weakness and terrified for her father. She couldn't even sleep: if she weren't far too scared to fall out of consciousness, she had to stay awake till after ten… just in case.

She startled when the door opened.

"Katie? Katie, I'm so sorry" –

It ripped right through her. That was what he had always said – when he sobered up. If he sobered up.

"Dad? What happened? I was worried about you!"

"The fish kept biting – look, I got six!"

Beckett was _not_ interested in the six fish.

"Why didn't you _call_?" she almost yelled. "I was _worried!_ " She leant on the rail of the stairs. "I thought you were hurt. I even called the police because I couldn't walk far enough to find you."

"I lost track of time," Jim apologised. "It took me a lot longer to walk home in the dark. I didn't have a flashlight."

"You should have called!"

"I forgot my phone," he muttered guiltily. "It's here on the table. You shouldn't have worried."

"Well, I did." She didn't even try to hide her annoyance. "And now you're _finally_ home, I'm going to sleep."

"Don't speak to me like that," Jim snapped.

"Then don't behave like you're fifteen and stay out so late without telling me."

"You're not my parent, Katie. I'm the parent here."

"Then you should be responsible."

She flipped round, would have stomped into her room but realised just in time that doing so would jar her ribs and wounds into full-blown agony, and walked very sedately instead, indulged in slamming her door with a bang, sat down on the bed and thought about screaming in fury.

Instead, she picked up her phone and called Castle.

"Castle," she ripped out, before he could even say _hey_. "Talk to me."

"What's up?" She sounded furious, but clearly it wasn't with him since she'd called him – why on earth was she calling for the second time in the same day?

"I don't want to talk about that. Talk about something silly."

"Okay." He thought quickly. "I'm in the Hamptons."

"You are?"

"Yeah. What's the point of having a house here if I don't use it? Manhattan is horrible right now. Sticky and ugghhhhhh. So I'm here. Fresh air, sunshine, pool, cold beer, snacks: nearly everything I want."

"Nearly everything? Sounds like everything."

"Not at all," Castle murmured in a velvety baritone. "You should be here too. In a bikini. Flipping your flukes."

"Don't mention freaking _fish_ to me," she half-shrieked.

"Uh? What fish? I thought you were a mermaid."

"Just quit it with the _fish_."

Castle thought rapidly. Beckett's – well, temper tantrum – was quite unexpected. Unless… oh God, unless her father had done something… dumb. He didn't ask. He'd promised to let her be strong enough, and hard as it was he had to _not ask_ until she told him. "C'mon," he enticed. "Tell me what's up. I wanna story."

Beckett shifted herself on the bed.

"Beckett, are you in bed?" he asked, in a very different tone.

"That's seriously creepy," she snipped.

"Are you?"

"Yeah."

"Oooohhhhh. What are you wearing?"

It simply fell out of his mouth. Beckett seized on the distraction. Distraction was what she badly needed – and wanted.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" she husked.

"Oh, so much. Wouldn't you like to tell me?" he murmured smoothly. "You know how much you love winding me up."

"I can wind you up even more if I don't tell you," Beckett flipped back, "and that way I won't be feeding your fantasies."

"My fantasies don't need to be fed, but if you don't tell me, that's okay. I'll just guess instead." He drew in a breath, and Beckett suddenly realised that she'd fallen into a trap that she hadn't seen coming. Castle, it was clear, was about to take full advantage of the opening she'd left him.

Of course, she could simply stop him. She could change the subject. She could tell him not to start. She could even put the phone down on him.

She wasn't going to do any of those things. She had been scared out of her mind by her father, she was still amped up on furious adrenaline, and Castle was about to provide an outlet for the whole tidal wave.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

"Guess all you like," she breathed, and heard Castle's gasp with satisfaction. She'd made her decision way back in the hospital and reaffirmed it with each text and call since – so she would reaffirm it again. There had always, always been the spark; the knowledge of the fire just waiting to roar into coruscating life. She'd had her own phoenix moment, almost six weeks ago: reborn from crash surgery and a bullet to the heart. She would soar again, and she would soar with Castle.

"I think," he growled gently, "that you choose your nightwear like you choose your underwear" –

"You've never seen my underwear."

"Have so."

"When?"

"When you popped a button going into the Old Haunt – and you know that was totally unfair because you put your hand on your Glock and you'd have shot me if I'd done anything at all and you, Beckett, are a total _tease_." He took a breath. "Anyway, I saw – you showed me – the edge of your bra. It was black, lacy, and _hot_."

It had been. And she had been teasing him. But she wouldn't have shot him. Probably.

"So," his voice dropped to the deep furry sable that stroked her everywhere. "Your nightwear. Right now, while you're still hurting and the wounds itch, you're wearing a soft t-shirt, two sizes too large so that it slips off one shoulder and shows off the satiny skin: reveals it just perfectly to be kissed."

How could he have known that? "Yes," she dragged out on a sigh.

"But underneath, you've got a teeny-tiny scrap of something pretty, just so you can feel like your badass sexy self."

He must have hidden a camera in her coat, or something. How could he _possibly_ have known that? More, how could he have known her mind and reasoning? She had packed her nicest panties – it had made up for the need to have soft, undecorated cotton bras with no redeeming features at all. When she was better, she had decided, she was going to burn those, ceremonially.

His voice slowed and dropped further: low and syrupy. "I think they're dark purple. Silky. Lacy. Promising everything and revealing nothing; temptation incarnate; totally erotic and still tasteful. If I could touch them, the fabric would slither over my fingertips, warm from your body, maybe a little damp."

She finally managed a breath. They weren't purple. That day. They were dark emerald green. The rest was absolutely accurate. Her blazing anger was rapidly turning to blazing heat under that wicked, dark-molasses tone. He kept talking.

"And maybe that's what you wear when you're alone. Sloppy, soft tees, but pretty panties. Just another contrast, another layer to unpeel." He drew in another breath, but Beckett could imagine his face: eyes midnight dark, hot enough to scald; his lips as they came down on hers in an alley; the strength of his arms and the breadth of his chest; the thick, hard heat pressing into her and her answering openness. She didn't say a word. "But when you're not…" and she knew he was thinking of them, together, in one or other bed. "…when you're not, then it's all so very different, isn't it? Then, you want to drive your partner wild." She thought he might as well have said – for certainly he meant – _drive me wild_. "You want him to be mindless and out of control, frantic to have you, willing to do anything for you. Don't you?"

How was he inside her head? How could he ever have known that she was always the one who wasn't quite lost in the moment: the one on top, the one in control?

"For that, you wear something quite different. Tiny little panties, still. Chiffon. Translucent, almost transparent, but still hiding the…essentials. Sometimes you wear a floating, drifting baby-doll in the same chiffon. Sometimes it's more…fitted. A Merry Widow, they used to be called. Now they're basques. Either way, it has intricate lacing and little bows that beg to be undone. If only your partner" – he was so very careful not to say _I_ – "wasn't already totally undone, he'd undo them."

"Would you?"

"Would _I_? Are you offering me the opportunity? Because I am so totally up for that."

Oh, shit, she had _not_ meant to give herself away so early. That – _he_ – had ruined her cool with a handful of sentences in a darkly seductive voice. She hadn't answered, and Castle wasn't slow to draw conclusions from that lack.

"I would undo them," he said. "Very slowly, and after every single one I'd kiss the skin underneath, all the way down, and then I'd let it fall to the floor, and hold your hips, and then I'd..." Beckett made a small, wanting noise. "But I'm not there, so I can't."

Castle had to close this conversation off before it all became far too much for him. He was exceedingly uncomfortable already, and even Beckett's unlikely participation in telephone teasing wasn't removing his underlying feeling that something more was wrong. Regardless, the call had gone from flirtation – which he had definitely intended – to almost full on dirty talk without pausing for breath. It sounded like Beckett was pretty uncomfortable already, too, from the shuffling and rustling of bedclothes.

"No…" she sighed out. "You're not."

Disappointingly, but entirely predictably, she didn't add _so come here_. Astonishingly, and totally unpredictably, she added, almost inaudibly, "I wish you were."

Castle pretended he hadn't heard that, mainly because he was pretty sure that he hadn't been meant to hear it. Beckett still hadn't mentioned anything about why she'd called at all, nor had she explained her instant loss of temper at the mention of fish. He thought. Fish. Her father fished. She was worried, no matter of what she'd tried to convince herself, that her father had been drinking again. And she'd called very late indeed, considering that she ought still to be tired and healing and therefore sleeping earlier than she would ever have done under normal circumstances.

Castle put two and two together – without even knowing if he should be adding them – and arrived at four without a hitch. Most fortunately, he kept his normally unfiltered commentary behind his teeth, because saying _Beckett did you think your dad was out drinking and that's why he scared hell out of you by arriving home really late? Have you had a fight with him?_ – was not going to help anything at all.

"How's your arm?" he asked instead. "Slings and casts are not sexy, you know – though I guess you could get a tattoo artist to draw all over it and decorate it with all sorts of art."

"There are no tattoo artists out in the woods, Castle," she answered with a snap. "And seeing as I only have one working arm, I can't drive. Anyway, Roscoe's pretty vanilla. I don't think it has a tattoo parlour."

"There are a few here," Castle said idly.

"You have a tattoo?"

"Nope. My rugged body doesn't need any more decoration." Beckett made a disgusted exhalation. "What? Just because you've got one – you told me, though I've never seen it which is very unfair – doesn't mean I need to get one. Matching tattoos is so last year."

She spluttered. "Matching tattoos? Are you crazy?"

"I don't want any sort of a tattoo, matching or not. Weren't you listening?" he added sweetly. "Not even for you."

"Ugh," Beckett emitted, which ended that line of discussion, swiftly followed by, "Thanks, Castle. I feel better."

"Anytime, Beckett. Anytime."

Beckett curled down in her bed and at last managed to sleep, though in the morning, she couldn't truthfully have described it as restful.

At breakfast, her father was clearly pursuing the path of ignoring her annoyance and behaving as if everything was just fine, which didn't improve Beckett's mood one single solitary iota. She rammed down her fury and ignored the elephant in the room just as industriously as her father, who left precipitately for fishing without even trying to do the dishes. Neither of them said goodbye.

Beckett flounced out of the kitchen, collected her phone and book and installed herself on the swing seat until the sun's heat should raise the air temperature enough so that she could lie on a lounger and be warm. She hated being cold, or chilled, but even though Cherry Ridge barely got beyond seventy most times, it was good enough for her. As soon as she thought the air temperature was high enough, she flopped on to the lounger in shorts and a t-shirt, tried to read, and finally fell asleep again.

Jim, meanwhile, was marching defiantly down the trail to the pond in a fine temper himself. Katie had had no right to call him out as if he were a child. He was her parent, not vice versa. He'd done nothing wrong, just been a little late home. She shouldn't have worried about him – it wasn't he who'd been shot or fallen down the stairs, after all, but she had, and he wasn't hovering over her and complaining if she was out of his sight for more than a minute. He carefully forgot that he'd told Katie not to do anything strenuous and that she wasn't actually capable of going more than a couple of hundred yards or so, so the chances of her being late home were zero.

He thumped crossly down at the edge of the pond, set his rod and line in place, and didn't hesitate before soothing his wounded feelings with a tot of whiskey. Duly soothed, he put the whiskey away and brought the apple juice out. _See_ , he thought angrily, _see what she's done_? He'd never have needed a drink if she hadn't upset him so. He'd been looking after her all these weeks and all she'd done was blown up at him for being late home. She'd been unreasonable. It was her fault that he needed a boost.

Lost in his own feelings of discomfort, Jim absolutely didn't acknowledge that it was understandable that she'd been worried about him: that without him she would be helpless: stuck in the cabin until she could call someone for help, unable to drive or to search for him. Instead, he ignored it, squashed the small niggle and feeling of guilt down, and, a little later, when it resurfaced, drowned it in another sip of Jack.

Quite deliberately, he stayed at the pond till after five, and only then packed up to walk the mile home, in which distance he chewed three breath mints and then swigged back his apple juice.

When he got in, Katie greeted him with a hint of constraint. She'd made dinner, too, though Jim had no idea how she'd managed that with only one working arm. He concluded that she was trying to apologise for her irrational temper yesterday.

"Very nice," he said after they'd finished. "Do you want some coffee?"

"No, thanks. I've had my two caffeinated cups for today, and decaf isn't the same."

Jim was just a little miffed that Katie had turned down his offer, which he'd meant as a thank you. Still, she'd always held grudges as a child and teen, and the only thing which had worked to fix it was time. So he'd give her time. He was on the bright side of the line here.

"Okay," he managed mildly. "I'll get one anyway."

"I'll put it on, since I can't wash up."

Katie fussed with the kettle, awkwardly. Jim sat on his hands and bit his tongue not to comment. Finally it was filled and switched on, at which point he was finally able to start the dishes. By the time he'd finished, Katie had already gone upstairs, leaving behind only a quiet "Goodnight, Dad."

Jim settled himself with his coffee and a current affairs magazine for the rest of the evening, and didn't move from the rocking chair.

In the morning, he washed out the apple juice bottle and refilled it from the fridge. It was almost finished.

"Katie," he called. "I need to go into Roscoe. D'you want to come?"

"Sure." She arrived downstairs, slowly, and smiled. "It'll be nice to see something that isn't here."

"Are you sure you can manage it?"

" _Yes_ , Dad," she replied in a very put-upon way, and picked up her purse.

Beckett was, in fact, suffering a severe case of cabin-fever. Going to Roscoe had to be better than staring at the trees again. It had been restful for the last month, but today she wanted out. Even a small town like Roscoe was better than nothing at all, and if she got tired there was a diner in which to sit and have coffee.

She didn't really talk on the way to Roscoe. Beckett wasn't a great passenger at the best of times, and it wasn't the best of times. She _knew_ that her father had had apple juice in that bottle. She did. But she simply could not shake the feeling that something was up and she wasn't spotting it. Her problem, which wasn't getting better for fretting, was that she was in no position to simply sneak out and search the outbuilding, which was what she really wanted to do, to prove to herself that she was merely totally paranoid, probably as a result of the meds.

Thinking of which, she'd better check whether she could start stepping down the painkillers. She'd been really careful to stick to the schedule, but she was tired of the fuzzy feeling with which they left her and the way in which they weakened her control and filters. Maybe she would go get coffee and ring her doctor: check it out.

Her dad pulled up in the centre of town. "Do you want to come to the supermarket, Katie, or shall I let you out here and meet you at the diner?"

Beckett considered for a second. "Let me out here, please. I'd like a little walk, then I'll go to the diner."

"Okay. Anything I can get you at the supermarket?"

"Um… some candy would be nice. Hersheys?"

"Sure."

Beckett didn't need her dad to get her anything else. And, somewhat ridiculously because he'd likely changed her diapers when she was a baby, she wasn't going to ask him to get her sanitary products. She'd manage to walk far enough to do that herself, thank you. The Country Store would do, and it was only about a hundred yards from the diner.

For entirely different reasons, both Jim and Beckett breathed a sigh of relief when she creaked carefully out of his car.

Some time later, Beckett plonked herself down in the diner with a discreet bag, a long sigh of relief and a large cup of coffee. The necessities of life established, and the doctor having confirmed that she could reduce the painkillers, she started to plan out a stamina-extending exercise schedule, starting with adding a minimum of fifty yards (each way) a day to the distance she could walk. It was quite insupportably ridiculous that she hadn't been able to manage more than a third of a mile, and she intended to fix that immediately. It had been more than a month since she was allowed out of hospital, and she had had quite enough of invalidism. She _would_ get back to fitness before the summer ended.

Deep in her subconscious, a naughty little wriggly not-exactly-a-thought noted that she would like to be fit so that she could participate in some other activities.

Her dad joined her, waving casually to a couple of fishing acquaintances who Beckett didn't recognise along the way.

"Coffee, Dad?"

"Sure."

Beckett stood up.

"Uh-uh. I'll get it."

"Nope. I'm getting it. It's about time I did a bit more than sat around all day." She grinned. "No getting fat and lazy for me."

From her father's expression, he thought that a little more fat and a little more lazy wouldn't be a bad plan.

"I've got to get some stamina back before I get back to work. I'll need to do some range practice, too." She had a sudden thought. "I don't suppose there's a range anywhere here, is there?"

"Katie," her dad said with some exasperation, "your arm is in a cast. Right down to your knuckles. How _exactly_ do you think you're going to shoot? You can't have the sling off for another few days, and the cast will be on for another three weeks."

Jim absolutely could not stand the thought of guns and Katie in the same place whether she was shooting said guns or not. He didn't think that he could cope with the gun range, and he certainly wasn't going to tell her that there was one at Howard Beach, just a few miles down the road.

"Oh," she said dispiritedly, and then, horribly, tried to wiggle her fingers as if she were holding her Glock. It didn't work. She made a very childishly disappointed noise at her hand. Jim managed not to sigh audibly, mainly by burying his nose in his coffee. At the back of his mind was the knowledge that later he could soothe his irritation. He'd forgotten just how soothing a tiny nip could be. But he'd got it all under control.

"Just let it heal. Go ask the doctor for some exercises, if you really must, but don't be surprised if they won't give you any."

"I'll stick to building stamina, then," she said, rather sulkily.

"Be _careful_."

"Yes, Dad."

Honestly, Katie could produce more attitude at thirty-one than when she had been fifteen. He'd forgotten just how self-reliant and downright prickly she could be when she thought that anyone was questioning her ability to take care of herself.

After lunch, her dad went off to fish (Beckett was sure that he was merely sleeping or reading in the sunshine where he couldn't be worried by her exercises) and Beckett took herself for a walk, measuring the distance on her phone. She was going to use that as her baseline, and then extend it every day. Running, sadly, was out of the question. She returned, having had another idea. She could do some more strengthening exercises. Just a few more than the schedule expected, just… speeding things up a bit.

And to reward herself for her good behaviour, she decided, every day she managed to meet her self-imposed targets, she would call Castle.

The one thing that she didn't think – extremely carefully didn't think, in fact – was that if she was thoroughly exhausted, and talking to Castle, she wouldn't have time or space to worry about what her father was getting up to. Which not-thought was swiftly not-followed by a further not-thought that the sooner she was able to walk a lot further, the sooner she would be able to go find him if he were late.

So that was precisely what she did: drained herself physically each day when her father wasn't there to see her pain and pushing – and called Castle most evenings to indulge in some ever-more heated conversations. It worked for her.

In the Hamptons, however, despite his delight in Beckett's frequent calls, Castle was becoming more and more concerned.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

 _To all in the USA, happy Fourth of July for tomorrow._


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

A week into nightly calls from Beckett, Castle was simultaneously delighted by the connection and exceedingly worried that she wasn't mentioning her father at all. Anything but, in fact: every time he asked about him she simply said "Fine," and then the conversation was firmly shut down, turned away, or closed off. He didn't push. He was also more than slightly concerned that she was always already in bed, by nine p.m., when she dialled, which he thought was more than usually exhausted. Beckett had – pre-shooting, of course, which made just a little bit of a difference – seemed indefatigable. Now, she seemed to be tired all the time. She was undoubtedly pushing herself far too hard, and she certainly wasn't explaining that either.

"Hey, Castle." It was her regular evening call. "How are the Hamptons today?"

"Well, there's cold beer, there's been warm sunshine, and the pool was perfect…. You should have been here. Peace, quiet and solitude."

"Isn't anyone else there?"

"Nope. All on my own. Editing." He made a grumpy noise. "I hate editing."

"Because it proves that you can be improved?" she said provocatively.

"I'm the pinnacle of perfection, the acme of ability" –

She snorted. "And yet you need to be edited."

"Just like you feel you need to wear make-up," Castle retorted.

Beckett sniggered. "I'm not claiming to be the ideal woman. I don't want to be on a pedestal – besides, have you ever seen a statue with a cast on its arm?"

"Guess not. I still hate editing, though. And I'm lonely. You should come here for a while."

There was an odd silence. Normally Beckett had simply reminded him of her words in the hospital.

"Not yet," she eventually replied, and then hurriedly added, "I can't swim with a cast on."

Castle recognised the evasion, and wondered the more about what was really going on up in Cherry Ridge Forest.

"How far did you walk today?" he asked instead.

"Nearly a mile – there and back. I'm getting there. I wish I could run…"

"All in good time."

Beckett muttered darkly. "Anyway, I can do a lot more than last week."

"Good. I don't want to take you out to dinner with a cast on: it limits the options so much."

"I can manage cutlery just fine."

"Yeah, but you're also a hundred and forty miles outside Manhattan and another hundred and twenty from here. And you won't come any closer which is just totally unfair."

"What's my incentive?" Beckett husked.

"My company isn't incentive enough?"

"I'm still here."

"You're not thinking about all the advantages keeping company with me would have. My charm, wit, personality" – Beckett spluttered – "sweeping you off your feet, hugs… and of course, _I_ can cook."

"I can cook too," Beckett replied crossly.

"Not with a cast on. And after dinner, there would be all sorts of attractive and exciting options, for both of us."

"Oh?"

"You're attractive. I'm exciting."

She choked. "Exciting?"

"I could excite you," he oozed, starting the game.

"Oh?" she said sceptically, which had, over the week, become a coded signal for _talk dirty, Castle_.

"Oh, yes. Any way you like it."

"Mmm?" she enticed.

"I'd be looking at your legs. Not a tail, note. Though I still think you'd be a totally gorgeous mermaid."

"No such thing as mermaids. Though I do like basking in the sun by the water."

He pouted, and was perfectly sure that she could hear it even though pouting didn't make a sound.

"You'd be out by the pool. In a bikini, basking. I'd offer you sun lotion, because it's really warm here and you wouldn't want to get sunburn." Unspoken, but heavily implied, was that she might burn in other, more metaphorical, ways. "You'd agree."

"I would?" Another part of the game they played. She pretended to resist, he enticed and teased and used all his words and voice to puncture the pretence, until he was sure from small sounds and heavier breathing that she was… relaxed, should he say, and ready to sleep.

"Of course you would. You love my hands massaging in the cool lotion, stroking softly up and down: first your calves, then over your knees, silky skin under my fingers and palms, perfectly smooth, trailing upward. Just a little upward, at first: one leg, then the other."

She hummed contentedly, a little edge of heat in the sound.

"A little further upwards, with a little more lotion: the liquid spreading creamily, over the long, lean lines of your legs. You make a little noise, and press into my hands. Your breathing is a fraction shallower, a touch faster; your cheeks have a tiny flush." He grinned down the phone. "You know what I'd do, don't you?"

"I know what I'd do."

"Mmm?" Castle enquired.

"Tip you into the pool," she snarked.

"Nuh-uh. You couldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because by this time I'd be kneeling between your legs," he drawled, and heard a soft inrush of breath with considerable satisfaction. "There's no way you could push me into the pool from there."

"Kneeling?" she breathed. "I like you kneeling."

"I'd like you kneeling too." It was further than they'd gone yet, but each night had taken them deeper into a mutually erotic conversation. "But this time I'm kneeling between your legs, massaging sun lotion into your thighs, one leg at a time. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Mmmm." She sounded satisfied.

"It's a really sexy bikini, too. Black, with little bows at the sides. High cut. Makes your legs look even longer." His voice had developed an underlying growl. "More to stroke. All the way up." Another tiny noise. "Right to the edge of the fabric, and then I'd start… on your stomach. All the way to the edge of the bikini top. Round your shoulders – it's very important to protect your shoulders," he smirked, and knew she heard the smirk.

"So I should employ you as a masseur?"

"That depends. What sort of massage do you like? Tension curing? Thai?" He paused. "Tantric?" he added, with a wickedly erotic drop of his voice.

"You choose," she said, unusually undecided.

"Hmm… so many options. If you've been doing all those exercises, maybe you need the knots smoothed out. You'd need to turn over, of course." There was an unconvinced mew-mutter. "Maybe not. In that case, maybe a little attention to your heart chakra…"

"That's what you call it?"

Castle ignored the snark. "I'd start with tiny little circles, just in the dip of your cleavage, where the golden skin isn't covered by your black bikini. Very delicate, gradually widening, moving further" –

There was a crash.

"Beckett?"

Nothing.

"Beckett!"

But there was no reply. Castle cut the call, and frantically tapped out a text. _What happened? Call me._

* * *

Beckett tore down the stairs, heedless of her still-weakened state and broken wrist, to find her father ruefully picking up the shards of a saucer from the floor.

"Are you okay?" she gasped.

"Yes. It was wet and it slipped." He looked at her. "I'm not hurt, Bug. I'm okay."

She walked more slowly across the floor to hug him. "Good. One plaster cast is enough in the cabin. I don't wanna go back to Manhattan just yet, unless you do?"

"No. It's too humid for me. But… don't you want to see your friends?"

Beckett blushed, which her father regarded with interest. "I've been talking to Castle," she admitted.

"That's nice. You know, if he wanted to come here…"

"Dad!"

He grinned. "Gotcha."

"Okay. G'night."

"Night."

Back upstairs, Beckett looked at the text from Castle, and tapped back _all okay. Dad dropped a saucer._

A second later, her phone rang.

"Are you okay?" Castle blurted out. "You took off like a scalded cat and I heard a crash and I thought you were hurt again."

"I'm fine. Dad dropped the saucer and it smashed."

"Okay, but why'd you take off like that?"

There was a pregnant silence.

"Beckett, look, you don't normally spook at loud noises, and I really don't think dropped plates sound anything like a shot even if it was that" – she made a very strange noise – "You did say that the snapping branch startled you."

"Oh."

"But I don't think it was that at all. I think it's something else."

"Do you." It was a flat shut-down.

"I do, but you're just going to brush it under the carpet whatever I say," Castle said, suddenly and unexpectedly exasperated.

"It's fine."

"Fine. Yeah, _sure_."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just another thing you won't talk about. Just like you wouldn't talk about hearing me till I forced it. I said I wouldn't arrive on the doorstep which is the biggest concession I've ever made in my life and you _still_ won't talk to me about anything that matters."

"This isn't your problem. There isn't a problem anyway."

"No? And there's the whole problem right there. You won't let me in. You don't want support. You just want… right now? All you seem to want is a phone sex line. You can find those in the directory."

"I don't even know if there _is_ a problem and you want me to spill my guts?"

"No, I just want you to behave like you actually want a relationship."

There was another horrible silence, as Beckett tried and failed to find an answer to that. She _did_. But she didn't want Castle entangled with her father if he – _oh fuck_ , how could she suspect it, it was only apple juice, she _checked_ – was drinking. Been there. Didn't want to go there again. Certainly didn't want to drag in anyone else.

"Fine. When – _if_ " he said with deadly precision – "you think you can ever manage to talk, call."

The call was cut. Beckett looked at her phone in disbelieving misery, thumped it down on the nightstand, and shivered her way through a night-time routine; after which she curled into bed and tried to sleep. It didn't work.

* * *

In the Hamptons Castle slammed his phone down and headed for the Scotch. It was just the same as every other time. Never told him anything she didn't have to. She didn't trust him. Well, the hell with it. He wasn't going to call her back. It was up to Beckett.

He buried his anger and upset in single malt, and then went to bed, where he slept extremely badly.

In the morning his resolve had hardened. He wasn't going to call. He was damn straight sure that she was worried about her father drinking; that she'd thought that he'd fallen; that she'd hightailed it, heedless of her own state, to check on him, terrified – but she wouldn't talk about it and she wouldn't tell him the truth and she wouldn't take support from him. If she couldn't even talk about important matters, then there was no point talking. He hadn't forgotten that he'd had to pry from her the admission that she'd heard him.

He left his phone in his bedroom and went out to have breakfast by the pool, in the sunshine. The fine weather soothed him: he found his laptop, poured more coffee, and lost himself in writing, paused for lunch, and wrote more: bleeding out his emotions into the words on the page. He didn't go and look at his phone once. He thought about it quite a lot, however.

* * *

Beckett didn't sleep well either. In fact, she barely slept at all. When the sun rose, so did she, some way before six. She could hear her father snoring in his room, deeply asleep.

 _Now or never_ , she thought, and sneaked out of the cabin, closing the door soundlessly behind her. Even if he woke, her father wouldn't expect to see or hear her early: her relentless exercising had left her exhausted and her worries had left her enervated, so she hadn't been up for breakfast with him for a few days.

She hated herself for doing this, but it had to be done. She had to prove it, so she could tell Castle there was no problem.

Her father's fishing bag was right there. She searched it, opened the bottle, sniffed, and detected only apple juice. Then, however, she started to search the rest of the outbuilding.

And there, right in front of her, when she opened a battered chest, was another bottle. She opened it, knowing before she did what she had found, sniffed and for good measure and proof tasted, and almost vomited on the spot.

Whiskey.

Whiskey, all over again.

She stumbled out of the outbuilding, having put the whiskey bottle back exactly as she had found it, and walked as far as she could to a sunny clearing, in exactly the opposite direction from the fishing pool. It should have been raining, stormy, hailing: not bright, beautiful sunlight. She slumped on to the grass and wept. All her suspicions had been justified, and how long had he been drinking and she simply hadn't noticed?

She curled miserably on the grass, still weeping slow, ugly tears. She'd been through all this, twelve years ago: five long years of misery and worries. Her mother's death had sent her father spiralling downwards in a few short weeks; her own flat-lining had done it again.

Her fault. She had been shot, and he had fallen.

No. _No!_

Her shooting was not her fault. It was on the sniper. Her father's fall was not her fault. If she had learned _anything_ the first time round, it was that she hadn't caused it, couldn't control it, and couldn't cure it. It was all down to him.

She started to cry again, as she remembered what she had had to do the last time. Walk away, and wait it out: wait for him to hit bottom and decide what meant most to him. Wait for the knock on the door. Wait for the phone call.

Wait. All over again, wait, and hopelessly hope.

Crying, she fell asleep.

She woke to find the sun had moved round and she was lying in shade, chilled in her thin t-shirt and cotton shorts. Her back hurt, and when she cautiously tried to stretch, the scars on her chest pulled painfully. She had no watch, but she was pretty certain that her father wouldn't have noticed – or necessarily, now he had found the whiskey bottle again, cared – that she hadn't been there.

She draggingly picked herself up, awkward with only one usable arm, and trudged home. She had no idea what to do. Well. Except. She could call Castle and talk to him.

She _could_. She just didn't want to show him the total collapse of her life. Bad enough that she had been injured, was still recovering, and then went and broke her arm. He hadn't exactly been impressed by that accident. He wasn't likely to be impressed by the latest disaster. There was no good option here. He'd _said_ he wanted her to talk, but when she'd actually told him about the broken arm all she'd got from him was a lecture as if he were her parent. She wasn't having that again.

The cabin was empty. Beckett made herself a strong coffee, sat down, and assessed her very limited options, in the same way that she had done years ago. Just as they had been years ago, eventually they resolved into one option. Leave.

She went upstairs and packed her bag. She could make it through the evening, and then leave, leaving her father an explanatory letter – all over again. She would call a cab to get her to Roscoe, and then work it out from there. She did some searching, and found that there was a bus to New York late afternoon. Fine. Her father would go fishing, and she would go home.

She could manage at home. She'd have to.

* * *

Castle finished off a particularly tricky paragraph, saved with a sense of considerable satisfaction, and realised that it was late afternoon. He went inside, and examined the contents of the fridge for ideas for dinner. There weren't many. Finally he discovered some steak, salad, and corn cobs, which would do. He couldn't claim to be hungry, despite the lack of lunch.

While waiting for the steak to marinate, he took himself to shower and remove the sun lotion from his body. On the way, he checked his phone. Nothing. He couldn't imagine why he was in any way surprised by that.

He had his lonely dinner, called Alexis, and then returned to writing. Mostly, though, he stared out over the sea and wondered why he couldn't have fallen in love with a nice, normal woman who behaved in nice, normal ways and wasn't so damn difficult to deal with. The porcupine picture she had sent had been only too accurate.

The glorious colours of the setting sun didn't cheer him at all. In his mind, love was supposed to involve mutual support, and talking, not silence and doing it alone. Well, he was damned if he was going to call her. When she wanted a proper relationship, she could call him.

No-one called him all evening.

In the morning, he left his phone in the bedroom, shut the door on it so he wasn't tempted to check it, and forced himself back to his laptop, where, with some effort, words began to emerge, and then flow, and then flood. Consequently, he entirely missed the soft chirping that would have indicated a call, and later missed a second set of cheeps. When he finally did look at his phone, he didn't recognise the number, and there was no message.

* * *

"Do you need anything from Roscoe, Katie?"

"No, are you going?"

"Only if you wanted to go. I don't need anything."

"We've enough fish for a week," she said lightly, concealing her true thoughts and plans. "Unless you're sick of fish."

"Never. Okay, then. After I've washed up I'll tie a few flies and then go and catch some more."

Beckett made a face. "I'm off for a gentle walk," she replied. "Maybe today I'll get to a mile."

"Pretty good. Don't overdo it, though. My nerves won't stand a relapse."

 _They already didn't, you just aren't admitting it. If you'd only said, we might have headed this off. Instead I'm waiting for you to go fishing so I can write you a note and try not to drop tears on it, and then leave. I can't take this all over again. I can't help you stop. I guess I'll go back to ACOA._

"I'll be good."

"Okay. See you later, Bug."

She gave him a quick, one-armed hug, and went out for her walk. When she returned, he was gone.

Awkwardly, she brought her bag downstairs, found paper and pen, and tried to compose a note. Almost as the cab arrived, she finished it, took her watch off, and left it on the paper.

 _Dad,_

 _I know you're drinking. I found the hidden bottle, and the apple juice so I wouldn't know. I can't take it again. I can't save you. When you're sober, let me know. I've gone back to Manhattan. My friends will make sure I'm okay._

 _Katie._

And then, as she got into the cab, she switched her phone off.

* * *

 _Hope everyone in the USA had a good 4th of July._

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

The bus journey was not pleasant. Beckett was cramped into a window seat next to a woman with what seemed like two dozen bags, all of which she wanted to hold on to rather than place in the rack. They jabbed into Beckett's ribs, luckily on the unscarred side, and severely tested her patience. Fortunately, closing her eyes meant that the woman didn't talk. She had looked as if she might, and strangulation was not an acceptable activity on a bus. Three painful hours later, she arrived at the Port Authority Terminal, staggered off the bus aching in every inch, and collected a cab home.

Her apartment was slightly musty, unlived in for almost two months. Still, it was her home, and despite everything, she relaxed infinitesimally as she put her bag down. She ran herself a hot bath, added an immense dose of muscle relaxant, creaked her way into it, and stayed there until the water cooled to tepid, after which, though it was barely past nine, she went to bed and plunged into heavy, nightmare-ridden sleep.

In the morning, rather earlier than she would have liked, Beckett woke to a bright Manhattan morning. It was going to be hot. She found a light cotton dress and some flat sandals, and considered the day ahead, taking into account her cast. More importantly, she took into account the minor little detail that if she turned up at the precinct while still on medical leave she would be on the wrong end of the new boss's temper, whoever the new boss might be.

Instead, she switched her phone back on, deleted every communication from her father, and sent a text to both Ryan and Espo, simply stating that she was back in town. Then, it being almost up to a civilised hour, she tapped Lanie's number.

"Kate?"

"Hey, Lanie."

" _Hey, Lanie_? About damn time. Where you _been_ , girl?"

"Upstate. Dad's cabin."

"What's it like up there?"

"I'm back in town," Beckett said, rather defensively, without answering the question. "Thought I'd call you."

"Sure you should. And then you can call your boy and let him know you're home."

Light abruptly dawned on Lanie.

"Hang on. What the hell you doing home already? You're supposed to be convalescing with your dad in the fresh air, not choking your abused lungs out here. Why're you back here? You get your ass over to my morgue _right this minute_ and explain." She paused. "And take a goddamn cab, too. If I find you've been on the subway I'll put you back in the ICU in restraints."

"Put the coffee on, then, Lanie, and stop bitching at me." But Beckett was laughing as she said it. Lanie was a breath of rousingly fresh air – and wasn't treating her like spun glass with a side order of fragility.

"You don't get coffee, girlfriend, till I see you with my own eyes."

"On the way."

Beckett cut the call, picked up her purse, and decamped for the morgue without further ado.

" _What the freakin' hell did you do_?" Lanie screeched at full, piercing volume when she glimpsed the cast. "You didn't have that when you left!"

"Inside voice," Beckett smirked.

Lanie made an indeterminately furious noise. "You explain _right freakin' now_!"

"I fell."

Lanie regarded her beadily, swiftly moving up the intensity levels to laser glare.

"Okay, okay," Beckett grumped. "I slipped on the steps and fell down them."

"How _many_ steps?"

"Five. Look, it was weeks ago."

"How many?"

"Five." Lanie drilled her with the glare. "Oh- _kay_. Four and a bit."

"Where's the sling?"

"Lanie, leave it. They said I only needed it for three weeks."

Lanie totally ignored that.

"Sling. Where? Or I put one on you like you were five – though five year olds are more sensible."

"Back in the apartment. I _don't need it_."

Lanie made a sound like a stooping falcon, grabbed a sling, and forcibly attired Beckett in it. "That's better. And don't you dare take it off again till the cast is off." She glared some more, for good measure. Beckett glared back, which had no effect at all. "Now that's done, why're you back here? Does Castle know? Do the boys know? Why'd your dad let you home alone?"

"Are you going to let me answer or just keep interrogating? We can find you a role as a uniform if you want to be a detective."

"Why are you here?"

"I missed Manhattan," Beckett said flippantly.

"Yeah, right. Sweltering heat, getting stuck to the sidewalk and sky high humidity. Why. Are. You. Here?"

Beckett didn't answer. Lanie watched her fingers clench and unclench, twine and untwine.

"I just am. Okay?"

That was not a question requiring an answer. Lanie made a _your-funeral_ gesture, and dropped the point. That point. "So what about Writer-Boy? Where's he?"

"Hamptons."

"You telling me he's not already on his way back?"

"He doesn't know I'm here."

Lanie's screech of disgust reached window-breaking intensity. "Tell me you've spoken to him since you left."

"Yeah."

"Well chalk one up for sense. Finally. So why doesn't he know you're back? And why aren't you off to the Hamptons right now?"

"Can't drive. Don't know where I'm going."

"And? That's not all of it."

"Don't want told off," Beckett muttered blackly.

"I don't think _telling off_ is what he wants to do."

"Sez you. That's exactly what he did when he heard about the arm. You mother-henning is bad enough."

Lanie clucked, which rather proved the point. "If you don't wanna talk to him, just text."

Beckett made a school-refusing toddler face.

"You are dumb, girlfriend."

"You promised me coffee and I don't see any."

Lanie was well-versed in the Kate-evasive-manoeuvre mode, and didn't push the point. She'd just deal with it another way. Kate was not the only person in the room with Castle's number.

"How many have you had already?"

"One." Lanie looked sceptical. "Just one. But if I don't get another one soon, I might have to commit murder."

"That's not subtle." Beckett raised her brows. "Okay. Let's have coffee."

* * *

Out on the decking, contemplating coffee, a small but tempting pastry, and the pool, Castle considered his phone, which now had six missed calls from the same, still unknown, number. Since it wasn't Alexis, Beckett, his mother, Gina or Paula – in that order –he wasn't interested by it. The sun was warm, the day was edging towards lunchtime, and his story was just about squeezing out the irritation and hurt that Beckett still wasn't talking to him.

He was, however, definitely intrigued when Lanie's number popped up.

"Hey, Lanie," he said happily. "What brings you to my humble i-Phone?"

"Ha! Humble? You? Mr Hi-Tech-look-at-my-thousand-dollar-phone with all the extras?"

"That's not fair, Lanie."

"I notice you're not saying it's not true."

"That's not true, Lanie," Castle said. It wasn't. It had cost marginally less.

"Hmm," she hummed, with a disturbing edge of cynical disbelief.

"Anyway, why did you call? Nice new body? You want me to host a party? I'm not inviting Perlmutter."

"Nope. Kate showed up this morning."

Castle knocked his coffee all over his pastry. " _What_?"

"She called. Then she came to the morgue."

" _What?_ "

"Kate is in Manhattan," Lanie pronounced very, very slowly. "With a broken arm in a cast and – until I put it on her" – Castle spluttered – "no sling."

"Manhattan? She was upstate."

"When did you last speak to her?

"A couple of days ago."

The tenor of the silence spoke volumes.

"Spit it out, Lanie. I know you're thinking something, so you might as well say it before you get indigestion from swallowing it down."

"Why's she suddenly not talking to you?"

Lanie's phrasing just about stopped Castle's annoyance. It was nice that Lanie – for once – didn't automatically blame him. On the other hand, he didn't think that would last past the first five seconds of the truth.

"Ask her."

"I did. Now I'm asking you."

"Something was wrong with her dad. She wouldn't talk about it, and I got mad."

He would have sworn he could hear Lanie roll her eyes. "Like Kate ever talks. She didn't tell me why she's back either. And I've been friends with her a lot longer than you've been around, Writer-Boy."

"So?"

"So, if you're waiting for her to call you, you'll wait a while."

"I can wait," Castle said stubbornly. "I'm not running after her begging for explanations."

"Not saying you should. Just… if she doesn't wanna talk, don't push her." There was an oddly-flavoured pause. "I tried, once. It didn't exactly work out well."

"Mmm?" Castle murmured, intrigued again despite himself.

"Let's just say that girl is more stubborn than an army of mules."

"When was that?" Castle suddenly asked.

"While ago. Um… about eight, nine years? Doesn't matter. Kate's as stubborn as a rock. Up to you what you do. I'm staying well out of it."

"Right."

"Anyway, I got corpses to chop. Kate's in Manhattan. Up to you what you do about that."

"Mm. Thanks, Lanie."

"Seeya."

Lanie put the phone down with a sense of considerable satisfaction. Then she played back the conversation. Then she regarded her beaten-up corpse with some concern.

"Hey," she said to it. "Looks like my girl's got problems with her dad again. Guess I'd better be ready with the chocolate." And the rest, she thought to herself. Kate had barely come through the last time round. On the other hand, last time round there hadn't been one large Writer-Boy Richard Castle, ready and all-too-willing to provide Kate with – um – consolation. If Kate got her head out of her ass, that was. Which Lanie was sure she could – um – facilitate.

* * *

Kate wandered home, in order to meet her goal of extending her still-limited fitness, but feeling better for seeing Lanie, even if Lanie was totally over the top about her arm. She ignored the cheeps of her phone, and then deleted the next round of calls from her father. She knew how that went. He begged and pleaded. She'd learned to block it out, until he was dry.

She still kept looking at her phone. That had nothing to do with her father, but it did have plenty to do with whether she had received anything at all from Castle. She hadn't. She hadn't heard anything from him since he'd said _I just want you to behave like you actually want a relationship._ And then: _if you think you can ever manage to talk, call_.

And he'd really meant it. He wouldn't call her. If she wanted to talk to him… she had to call. But calling meant explaining. Last time…

Last time, she'd almost lost her second-oldest friend over not explaining. And there but for the grace of God and O'Leary's infinite tolerance she'd have lost her oldest friend too.

There was an idea. O'Leary. He'd help her see straight. She tapped out a text, and then treated herself to a really good coffee and a delicious sfogliatella, both of which she had purchased on the way home. Then she performed her other exercises, and on finding, quite delighted, that she wasn't utterly exhausted, attempted a few very light yoga asanas.

She was interrupted in a careful tree pose – with one arm firmly in its sling to avoid the wrath of Lanie – by the cheerful bleep of a text arriving. Investigation proved it to be O'Leary, who announced – without discussion, in the way that mountains didn't discuss anything – that he would drop by at shift end. She felt better already. O'Leary's hayseed immensity and gentle-giant demeanour was always reassuring.

Early in the evening, Beckett's door was rapped. She opened it to find the sidewalk-blocking width and skyscraper height of O'Leary, smiling happily. Smiling lasted just as long as it took him to notice the cast on her arm, when his hedgerow brows wriggled into a frown.

"What'cha been doin' there?" he emitted in a muted roar.

"Hey, Beckett. How have you been? All healed up and ready to work?" she snipped.

"Aw, c'mon. You were s'posed to get better, not hurt yourself more."

He took two long strides inside the apartment, pushed the door shut behind him, and wrapped Beckett into a bear-hug. He was the only work-related person (apart from Castle, a little voice niggled) that she'd allow to hug her. Ever. (Castle wasn't work, the little voice niggled some more. Castle-hugs would be marvellous. She ignored it.)

"Now, what's all this? Thought you were stayin' out in the boonies till your medical leave was up?" He regarded her carefully. "You don't look so good. Wanna talk, or wanna get takeout an' beer an' catch up on the gossip?"

"Dad's drinking again," she said flatly.

O'Leary's face gaped. " _Say what_?" he gasped. "Drinkin'? Why?"

Beckett controlled her face – but not well enough.

"Oh," he followed, all hayseed dropped. "Yeah. Right. Bit much of a shock for him?"

"I guess. And then I fell" – she waggled the cast – "and…"

"Aw, Beckett. 'Tain't your fault." He patted her consolingly; possibly the only person in the whole wide world who could get away with that. Of course, that was because even being shot point blank with an M-15 wouldn't have affected him.

"I know that. But… I couldn't stay and watch him lie. And then not lie. And then the rest of it. Again."

"I get that." He paused. "But what I don't quite get" – Beckett looked questioningly at him – "is how come I'm here, an' that writer pal of yours ain't. Shouldn't you be callin' him?"

She didn't answer.

"Beckett, what've you done?" _This time_ hung on the air.

"Why are you blaming me?" she muttered.

"Because I know you?" O'Leary grinned. "An' because you're here an' – even though I been askin' for months – you haven't introduced me to him. Y'know, 'tain't fair. I'm a fan an' you won't even get me a signed copy. You're s'posed to be my pal."

"I am your pal!" she said indignantly. "Who was it listened to you mooning over Pete for three months before you asked him on a date?"

"Who was it made me eat somethin' with so much garlic the sidewalk melted when I breathed?"

"That was my best shashlik!"

"You never told me you were that scared of vampires."

"I am not! There's no such thing as vampires."

"Ohhkaaaay. An' seems to me that there's no such thing as this writer pal of yours either, since you ain't sharin'."

"He exists all right. He exists to annoy me."

"Really? Then why you lookin' all miserable?"

Beckett hunched her shoulders.

"Talk to the guy. An' if he don't treat you good, I'll arrest him for you." She raised a wan smile. "C'mon. What's up?"

"Don't-want-to-mention-Dad," she mumbled. "He said don't call if you won't talk."

"You just told me," O'Leary pointed out, unanswerably. "An' it's clear to a blind man at midnight that you're sweet on him, so just talk. Iffen he's as keen on you as I think he is – an' I heard about that show in the cemetery – it'll work out."

He handed her the phone.

"Huh?"

"Just do it. An' if he's mean to you, I'll go round an' sort it out."

"You can't. He's not in Manhattan."

"I c'n get provisioned for an expedition. I guess I can manage to go outside the city if it's not too far."

"The Hamptons. Don't know where."

"Mm. Don't that need a passport?"

Beckett laughed, which O'Leary heard with considerable relief.

"Now," he said happily, "you go call your boy, an' I'll just call the pizza place."

"You're a big bully." She made no move to dial.

"Yep. I'm the biggest bully around. I practice on the grizzlies in the Zoo. Now go make that call, before I do."

"No way! You get your oversize paws off my phone."

"Go call, then."

O'Leary was quietly implacable. He thought that Beckett would be better for some…um, what was the word… _physical_ comfort, of a sort he was neither inclined nor able to provide. He pushed her gently (she was already in plaster: more wouldn't help, he thought) off the couch towards her bedroom, and pulled out his own phone to order pizza.

Beckett gazed at the screen of her phone and Castle's number with more trepidation than delight. She took a deep breath, and tapped.

The call went to voicemail. She didn't leave a message. It wasn't the sort of subject for leaving messages.

"Well?" O'Leary enquired, stretched out to _waaaaalllll_?

"No answer."

"You tried. 'S all you needed to do."

The door sounded with pizza, and O'Leary dropped the conversation in favour of precinct gossip from Central Park and anywhere else his enormous network of friends, acquaintances, cronies and, most likely, grizzly bears might have told him about.

The evening drew to a comfortable close.

"Now, you take care of yourself. I guess the team'll be round pretty soon. You c'n let Espo do your cookin'."

"Not if I want to survive, I won't. Ryan makes a mean lasagne, but Espo can't make a taco without a food truck."

O'Leary chortled and took his leave.

As soon as he got out the door he grinned evilly at his phone, on which he had carefully installed the phone number of one Richard Castle, writer. He wouldn't do anything with it just yet. But if nothing had happened in a couple of days, well, mebbe a little trip out of the city would just suit him. He loved visiting faraway places, such as Queens, or the Bronx. He'd even been to Philadelphia, once, but the food was a bit too foreign for him.

Beckett tidied up, blessed her small dishwasher, which meant that there was no risk to her cast (she couldn't face Lanie's recriminations if she had to have it redone), and settled down to read. Simply seeing O'Leary had left her comforted: his undemandingly enormous presence and cop background restoring her sense of reality. When she got around to checking her phone, she found a message from Espo (which meant from both of the boys) wondering why she hadn't hauled her ass (lazy was strongly implied) over to the Twelfth to come see them and preferably do a bit of work.

She smirked nastily at it and composed a return text, largely consisting of a number of questions around their competence if they needed a half-healed invalid who wasn't even allowed inside the front door for another six weeks minimum – and then only to requalify and be psych tested first.

She supposed that she ought to try calling Castle again, though she couldn't really say she was enthusiastic. Mostly, she was unenthusiastic because she thought he would start trying to tell her off again, and the last thing she wanted to do with him was argue. Still, she could text him. That would do. Tell him she was back in Manhattan. Time enough for conversations tomorrow.

 _Back at my own place,_ she tapped. _Lanie's keeping me in order. B._

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers. Much appreciated._

 _Reviews were broken earlier, which usually means we've got a couple of days of on-off coming. Answers will be given as soon as reviews work, should they go off again._


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Following his solitary dinner, Castle guessed he ought to check his phone, left in his bedroom to avoid pathetic constant staring at it, and found to his utter amazement a missed call from Beckett followed, some time later, by a text, sent only moments earlier. Back in Manhattan, indeed?

He was still confused by the constant missed calls from the unknown number, but they had tailed off that morning, stayed off all day, and remained off most of the evening, though there was one solitary entry. He ignored that.

Instead, he thought about Beckett's missed call (without message) and short text. He had somewhat of a dilemma. It wasn't what he'd wanted, which was talking. On the other hand, he hadn't heard her call, and it was possible, if unlikely, that the call had meant that she wanted to talk. And weighing the scales to that hopeful side, she had texted to tell him she was in Manhattan.

Castle considered the evidence and the likely story, and rapidly came up with the conclusion that Beckett had abandoned her father because she'd found evidence that he was drinking again. In which case… it was possible that all those missed calls were because Jim still had his, Castle's, number from that abortive, desperate plea for Castle to save Jim's Katie from herself and the rabbit hole of the case. He hadn't managed it then.

It was the last point he needed to call Beckett back – emphasis firmly on _back_ , because she had called him first. It wasn't particularly late, for them. He tapped her number, and waited.

"Beck-uhhh-ett?" her voice slurred, interrupted by a yawn. "Castle?" The voice reached full wakefulness by the end of his name. "Why're you calling?"

"Uh… you called me. Texted. So I guessed you wanted to talk to me."

"Oh. I didn't expect you to call."

It was said with such matter-of-factness that it hit like a wrecking ball. "Why not? You expect me to ignore that you're back at home with a broken arm and no help?" She should have been right there where he could help.

"I've got help. Lanie. O'Leary. It's not up to you to criticise."

"It" – Castle looked at the rest of that sentence and snapped his mouth shut to rethink, very hastily, before the looming fight became real. "No. But I want to help. If you can make it to Manhattan from Roscoe on your own you can come up here, and I won't be tempted to swaddle you in cotton wool."

There was an odd silence. "You so would," Beckett said, much more lightly.

"Would not. Anyway, you like my cooking, and even if you can't swim it's warm." He stopped. "Hang on. Who's O'Leary?"

"Friend. Cop."

"How come I've never met him?"

"Different precinct."

Castle scrapped that line of discussion for pursuit in person, later. "Going back to the point, come up here. Much nicer than Manhattan in July. I could come down and fetch you" –

"No. I can get the train."

He clamped his lips firmly shut. No cotton wool, Castle. No swaddling. Except possibly into his arms.

"Okay," he reluctantly agreed. "Can you get a train tomorrow?"

"Guess so," Beckett decided. Truthfully, the thought of being out in the Hamptons and not in the thick humidity of the city was driving her decision. The thought of being with Castle was driving it faster. His concession that she would get the train had undoubtedly helped with that, because the more he had insisted on collecting her the less she would have agreed to go at all. "Do you need me to bring you supplies? Doughnuts?"

"No, but if there aren't sexy bikinis in your bag I'll be _very_ disappointed."

Beckett made a disgusted noise, but his return to sexy-flirtatious was somehow reassuring. "Wait and see," she snipped.

"I intend to. See, that is," Castle oozed happily. "Text me the train time, okay? I'll pick you up at the station."

"Okay," she said agreeably. "Can I go to sleep now?"

"I could tell you a bedtime story."

"Not tonight."

"Aww. No fun."

"Nope. Night, Castle."

"Till tomorrow," he said automatically, and only realised that it was the literal truth after he ended the call.

Beckett turned over in bed, and floated into sleep without noticing, cushioned on Castle's easy familiarity and lack of over-protectiveness.

In the Hamptons, by contrast, Castle wasn't sleepy at all. Unfortunately, he also wasn't nearly as sanguine about life, the universe, and Beckett (who was, naturally, the centre of the current state of the universe) as normal. Specifically, he was very concerned about the unknown caller, whom he presently firmly believed to be Jim. He resolved that the next day he'd keep his phone close and answer if another call came.

* * *

Deep in Cherry Ridge Wild Forest, Jim was, again, staring at Katie's brief, devastating note, and the watch. He'd thought… he'd thought she'd never know. But she had found out, and had taken far swifter, wholly decisive action. The last time, she'd tried to drag him out of his spiral. This time – she hadn't. Simply left him to it, with the bald comment to call her once he got dry.

He blew his nose, and reached for the small glass beside him. His phone lay on the table, too. He kept dialling, but never pressed go, on Katie's number: she hadn't answered his first batch of calls. He had another option, but the calls weren't being answered, and he didn't – couldn't – leave a message. The last time he'd done that, it hadn't gone so good, either. All that had achieved was Katie getting shot. However, he had no other option. He didn't have any contact numbers for any of Katie's co-workers, so it was Rick or nothing.

He swallowed another sip, and savoured the taste, and another. It had only been a half-finger poured into the glass, and he could easily have another half-finger, and then stop.

He forgot that he'd had a nip or several that afternoon, and the evening before. Every time he'd looked at the note, in fact. She shouldn't have left him. If she'd been there, he'd have stopped. (But he hadn't. He'd _started_.) If she hadn't been shot and then fallen, lying crumpled just like Johanna had – _dying_ just like Johanna had, except she lived as Johanna hadn't – he'd never have needed it.

The whiskey level fell and Jim's temper rose. It was Katie's fault for getting shot, for abandoning him without even talking to him, for running away. Gradually, his thoughts broadened. Rick wasn't innocent either. If he'd tried harder, Katie wouldn't have gone running after the case. If he'd treated Katie better, she'd have listened to him. He should have stopped her. He could have stopped her. All he'd had to do was not leave her alone.

The level in the glass refilled, and dropped.

Jim picked up his phone.

"Rick Castle. Is that" –

"Jim Beckett. Why didn't you keep my daughter safe? It's your fault she got shot and she's run out on me. You couldn't do the one thing you were asked to and everything since is down to you" –

"You're drunk," came coldly down the line. "So I'll excuse what you just said as being the whiskey."

Castle couldn't believe that Jim was blaming him, explicitly, for Beckett's shooting. His own guilt was quite sufficient: he didn't need Jim's alcohol-induced commentary. Unwarranted guilt ignited his anger.

"I'm not" –

"Liar." It was equally cold. "I don't owe you anything, unlike Beckett. No-one on God's earth could have stopped her – you didn't, did you? – short of physical force. If you're suggesting I should have assaulted her, then don't bother."

"She was shot!" It was ever so slightly slurred.

"I know." The words dropped heavier than cannon-shot. "I was there. I was there in the ambulance when she flat lined. Twice. I was there in the hospital same as you were. I _know_." Silence bit. "But I'm not the one who's drunk." Another suffocating silence. "I'm not the one she's walked away from." And again, silence. "I'm the one she's running _to_."

The line was still open. Castle could hear, very faintly, the sound of a glass being set on a surface.

"Go to rehab, Jim."

"Who do you think you are telling me what to do?"

"Or go to hell in your own way. I'd _rather_ you went to rehab, because that way you'll see Beckett again. She hasn't told me you're drinking again, incidentally," he added casually. "She hasn't said anything about why she came back to the city."

"You don't know anything about it. You've got no right."

"No. I don't have any right. And nor do you. Goodnight, Jim."

Castle cut the call and breathed very slowly in and out, in and out, until he had dissipated his flaying fury at Jim attempting to blame him. And then he poured himself a Scotch, admired his own sense of dramatic irony, and downed it in one, after which he washed the glass up and went to bed. Sober.

* * *

Beckett didn't exactly wake early. In fact, she woke very much later than she had intended, and still had to pack. She assumed that the comfort of her own bed and linens, together with the release of the ever-present tensions of the cabin, had given her the mental space to sleep hard.

She unpacked her bag, which she hadn't done last night, considered her shorts and t-shirts, repacked them, added two bikinis and then, out of sheer mischief, the swimsuit she'd taken to LA which had had such an _amazing_ effect, and then popped a skirt and pretty top in too, finally adding a sundress in case of evenings out. At no time did she consider whether she would actually be comfortable with the scarring and wounds they would reveal. She slipped on flat sandals (heels remained out of the question, although with the right encouragement she was pretty sure Castle would swoop her up and carry her if needs be), and then investigated the train times. There was one – damn. She'd missed that one, and would have to get the late afternoon one. Change trains, as well. She growled unhappily, cross with herself that she'd slept so long, and texted Castle. _There around 6.50pm_. _Tx._

She wanted some lunch, but there was nothing edible that she could fix – she binned the contents of her fridge, which were feeding on each other – and in the end she simply heaved up her bag, caught a cab to Penn Station, and planted herself in a pizza place outside. She told herself firmly that she could manage to get herself through the station, as long as she left plenty of time.

As it happened, she ended up sitting in the station for longer than she would have liked, but finally the LIRR board told her the platform and she could get moving. Fortunately the change at Jamaica wasn't too tight. She read her book throughout the journey and tried very hard not to think about her father at all. She wasn't entirely successful.

Sitting for the best part of three hours didn't do anything for Beckett's wounds, especially coming on top of the cramped bus ride from Roscoe two days ago. She painfully creaked off the train, and there, right on the platform waiting for her, was Castle, face bright and delighted, eyes alight, in shorts (mmmm) and a t-shirt. He grabbed her bag, swung it out of her way, and, without apparent thought or pause, wrapped her into his arms.

To her total embarrassment, she burst into tears.

"Hey," he complained. "I'm not that bad." He abruptly became contrite. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No," she sniffled. "Sorry."

Castle took the path of least resistance and most sense and simply patted her back very gently for a minute or two while she regrouped, flattened against his shoulder with only the dark curls of her hair visible. He then tactfully ignored her brimming eyes and sniff, retook her bag, and towed her along with his free hand to his car.

"The _Ferrari_?" she squeaked.

"Sure. I've got a reputation to keep burnished." He opened the door for her. "Can you get in with one arm?"

She rolled her eyes. "Just watch me." She slid smoothly in, and with only a minimum of awkwardness did up the seatbelt one-handed.

"Very neat."

He put her bag by her feet and came round to take the driver's seat. "C'mon. Let's go home and have some dinner." He grinned evilly. "Pasta. You can eat it with one hand." Her eyes rolled, but her momentary misery had been removed.

Castle drove them smoothly along, turned down a small road, drove further… and just as Beckett was about to ask whether he'd found an undiscovered bridge to Ireland, turned in and pulled up.

Her jaw dropped open. "You _live_ here?"

"No, I squat on the beach in a tent. Yes, I live here." He managed not to say _and for the rest of the summer so do you_.

She didn't say anything. Castle wandered round the car, suavely opened the door for her and took the bag out of the way. He didn't – quite – hover. He was, however, unobtrusively close. Beckett unpeeled herself and exited the Ferrari's low seat in good order, which was slightly disappointing as it meant he had no excuse to put his arm around her.

He didn't need an excuse to put his arm around her, he rapidly decided, and simply did so. She startled slightly, and for a moment he thought that she would move away from him.

She didn't. She didn't wriggle any closer, either, but simply not separating was a good start.

"Dinner," he said, and didn't add anything…difficult.

He steered her inside, and without allowing her to pause directed her to a room containing a wide bed, a wooden armoire, and a comfortable chair; with an en-suite bathroom off to one side. It didn't look as if it was occupied by anyone else. Her bag was laid down, and Castle smiled down at her.

"I'll give you a few minutes," he said. "When you're ready, come to the kitchen."

"Kitchen?"

"Where dinner will be." He looked at her properly. "Oh. That way," he gestured.

"Okay."

Castle, never one to stifle his impulses, took one long stride and collected Beckett back into his encircling arms. "There," he murmured into her hair. "Hugs make everything better. Food helps, too. Dinner as soon as you're ready."

He dropped his arms, which was surprisingly difficult, and padded off to prepare the pasta. Shortly before it was ready, he heard the soft click of her sandals.

"In here," he called. Beckett slipped round the door.

"That smells good," she ventured. There was a slight note of nervousness, on which Castle didn't remark.

"Dinner's outside. Could you take the salad out?" he asked.

Beckett considered the bowl, and then considered her cast. "Um… if I stick my arm out and you balance the bowl on the cast and I use my good hand to stabilise it…"

"Okay."

She re-angled her arm, letting the sling drift emptily, and Castle put the salad bowl on to the cast, not releasing it until Beckett had taken a firm grip of the edge. She walked out slowly, and decanted it on to the table, then returned.

"Anything else?"

"Bread. Wine's already there."

"Wine?"

"Thought it might be pleasant. Rosé. It's summer. There's soda, or water, if you prefer."

"Rosé sounds nice."

She collected the bread in the same way as the salad, and left it on the table.

"Sit down. I'll just bring the pasta."

Castle arrived bearing two plates of penne in a tomato and red pepper sauce. "Nothing that needs cut up or two hands," he smirked.

Quite unexpectedly, instead of a glare, eyeroll or attack upon his ear, she simply murmured "Thank you," took a slice of French bread, and began to eat.

"Wine?"

"Please." She didn't make a move to sip it, though. "It's nice out here."

Castle watched her carefully. She seemed tired, and her emotional collapse as soon as he'd met her wasn't precisely reassuring or normal. He'd let her eat her dinner, and then he'd provide some non-specific snuggling and quiet strength, and absolutely no cotton wool. Still, she was making a good enough meal, and drinking a few sips of wine, so he could be strong enough not to baby her.

There wasn't much talking over the meal.

"Let's clear up," Castle said, without saying _sit there nicely and don't do anything while I take care of everything_.

"Okay. If you balance things on the cast again, I can carry them." And she did, while Castle nearly killed himself _not_ helping.

"Coffee," he said, once everything was in the dishwasher. Castle was surprisingly efficient, and had cleared up as he went along, precisely so that after dinner he wasn't messing around in the kitchen rather than snuggling Beckett in. "We can have that outside, too. Stargaze. Will you be warm enough or do you want a wrap? I've got a couple of lightweight ones."

"I'll be fine."

"Okay." He put the coffee pot on the tray with mugs and cream, and took the whole assemblage outside, Beckett padding after him.

"Huh?" she emitted, as he went past the table and round a corner. "Oh!"

"It's shielded from the wind, and even though you're not – most disappointingly, I might add – wearing a bikini, you can still look at the pool or the sea or the stars."

"And the fact that the only seating is a couch has nothing to do with your choice of areas?" she snarked.

"Nothing whatsoever," he smiled seraphically. "Come and get some coffee."

She sat down, not quite squished up against the cane arm of the couch. Castle sat down a carefully judged few inches away, and poured coffee. When she leaned forward to take the mug, she ended up a little closer: just enough for him to lay his arm unsubtly along the back of the couch and curl his fingers on to her shoulder. She felt slightly cold through the t-shirt, so he pressed a little. Abruptly she conceded, and wriggled closer, the cast and sling on the side furthest away from him. His arm slid round her, keeping her slender body close and warmed.

"Look," he enticed. "All the stars are out."

"Yes." She didn't say anything more. Castle cuddled gently, and relapsed into silence himself. Time passed, the coffee was drunk, and peaceful, silent togetherness fell around them.

"Dad's drinking again," Beckett said, into the still night. "That's why I came back." Castle didn't make a sound, but his fingers petted over her shoulder. "Whiskey. All over again, whiskey." Her voice was even: emotionless. "I can't do anything about it. I learnt that last time."

Still the ice in her voice held her words together. "He couldn't stand to see me die," drifted through the air. "He couldn't stand to see her die either, and it's just the same now. He can't deal with death. He can't get over it, and when I fell down the steps I think he thought I'd been shot again." Castle jerked, and stilled himself, tucking her a fraction closer, looking down on the bent head in the starlight.

"I can't fix him. All I can do" – self-contempt laced the chill clarity – "is leave. Run away, and leave him to it, till he fixes himself." She stopped.

"Hope that he'll fix himself. And that he'll still want to see me, after that."

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

 _To NYAZ (Guest) – ACOA is "Adult Children of Alcoholics"._

 _Apologies I'm late. RL occasionally still gets in the way of the important things, like fanfic!_


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

There was a long, bitter silence. Castle considered his options, and decided rapidly that truth – since Beckett had actually _talked_ about something – was the right one.

"Your father rang me," he admitted.

"He what?"

"Rang me. A few times. I didn't recognise his number and he didn't leave a message, but last night I picked up the call."

"Why only last night?" she queried sharply.

"Um… I left my phone where I couldn't hear it. I…" he swallowed. "I wasn't going to keep watching it."

She didn't say anything at all in reply to that, but her shoulders shrank.

"Hey, you're here. It's okay."

He stopped and regrouped. "Anyway, your dad rang me. He - well, before that I'd worked out that you were stressed 'cause you thought he was drinking even though you thought he wasn't" – she made a strangulated noise in her throat – "I've seen plenty of it, even if you're the one who had to live with it – and you wouldn't tell me anything even though I'd promised not to arrive." He found his thread again. Beckett was gravestone still and silent under his encircling arm. "Anyway. I guessed he was drinking. And then you went back to Manhattan and Lanie called me" –

"That Quisling traitor!" Beckett screeched. "She had no right."

"It didn't matter since you called anyway," Castle said impatiently. "I think she was planning to interfere, but so what? You're here now." He wrapped her in a little more definitively. "So I picked up the phone and it was your dad and he laid into me about you getting shot and how it was all my fault he was drinking."

Beckett gasped.

"No, I know it's not," Castle continued. "So I told him to go to rehab and put the phone down on him."

"Oh." She thought it over. "Good."

"Uh?" He'd not expected that.

"He has to do it himself. It's…um…not helpful if he clings to someone."

Castle interpreted that, with considerable accuracy which he didn't let escape his lips, as meaning that Jim had previously clung to Beckett, and that she didn't want it to happen again. A second's further thought told him that she hadn't walked away soon enough, that time.

The next thought told him that, unemotional voice or not, Beckett was very tense and very unhappy. Castle only ever had one reaction to unhappiness. He swung her sideways into him, legs draped over his lap, and cuddled her into his wide shoulder, stroking soothingly over her back.

He might as well have cut the strings on a puppet. She collapsed against him: no strength, no lithe muscle keeping her upright. She was as lax and heavy as a corpse.

"I wish he hadn't…" she whispered into his chest; and it wasn't clear if she meant _hadn't started drinking again_ , or _hadn't called you_ , or _hadn't been there in the hospital_ , or _hadn't picked her up when she'd fallen down the steps_.

"Mmmm," Castle hummed. "Just stay here. Look at the stars with me. No need to worry about it right now." He rearranged her more comfortably to place her head tidily on his shoulder, leaned back and stared up at the stars. After a moment, Beckett's head turned to look up as well. More time passed.

After a further while, Beckett realised that she was falling asleep, eased and rested by Castle's bulk, warmth and completely undemanding presence. For a man who never stopped talking in the precinct, he was quite different out here, on his own turf: completely at peace. She knew she ought to go inside, prepare for bed and then sleep, but she was comfortable where she was.

Her eyes drifted back to the night sky: clear with a waning moon. The vast expanse above her absorbed everything, gave back nothing: huge and impersonal, unconcerned by her petty problems. It was beautiful, but it was a cold, inhuman beauty. She shivered, chilled. The starry sky couldn't care whether her father lived or died, drank or stayed dry, just as the hot sunlight hadn't cared when she died, nor yet when she returned to life.

"I think it's time we went inside," Castle murmured. "It's long after ten, and I'm cold too."

"'Kay." She stood up, and stretched cautiously. Castle picked up the coffee tray and led her in. On the table, neglected, lay both their phones. Both proved to have a number of missed calls.

"Lanie, Lanie, Dad, Espo, O'Leary."

"Your dad, Lanie, a different number I don't recognise."

Beckett was already listening to the messages, and then tapped out a quick pair of texts. "That'll keep Lanie and Espo quiet. O'Leary can wait."

"Who's O'Leary?" Castle asked, listening to his collection of calls. His eyes flew wide. "And why is he calling _me_?"

"You what now? O'Leary? Calling _you_? I will shoot him!"

"Don't shoot him: it sounds like he's a fan," he smirked. "I can't afford for the fans to be shot. Lowers my royalties." He became more serious. "So who is he, and why is he telling me to treat you well or he'll arrest me?" He pouted. "I always treat you well, and if you'd let me, I'd treat you even better. If I get arrested by this O'Leary person, it's going to be your fault." He humphed, unconvincingly.

"Give me your phone," Beckett demanded. "I wanna talk to O'Leary."

"Nope," Castle denied her. "I'm going to talk to him. Who is he? Or I can just ask him, so if you want to get your retaliation in first, better start talking."

"We worked together for a bit. Then I went to the Twelfth and he went to Central Park. He's a homicide detective too."

"That doesn't tell me much. What does he look like? Where's he from? Is he senior to you? C'mon. Describe him."

"I've got a better idea."

"Yeah?"

"Invite him up for a day. If you're going to ask him ten thousand questions, you should give him lunch and a beer or two."

Castle shrugged, suspecting mischief from Beckett's expression. "You sure? Your recuperation, I guess. Okay." He thought for a moment or two. "But not yet." Her eyebrows rose. "Let's get you settled in first." He waggled his own eyebrows villainously. "I wouldn't want to share my first sight of a real mermaid."

"I am not a mermaid, Castle," Beckett sighed, and rolled her eyes. The effect was rather spoilt by the yawn that invaded her face.

"I think it's your bedtime."

"Yeah," she yawned again. "Which way? I think" – another yawn – "I've forgotten."

Castle gave in to his urges, wrapped an arm around her waist, and steered her through the house. "This one," he said. "If… well, if anything's wrong, mine's just opposite."

"'Kay."

She stumbled into the room, made her preparations for sleep through a series of gaping yawns and the judicious use of matchsticks for holding her eyes open, and fell into bed.

Castle congratulated himself for quite some time for _not_ steering Beckett into his bedroom, and then looked at his phone, wondering whether to call her O'Leary-cop. In the end, he didn't, reckoning that it would be better to do so the next day. He couldn't imagine that any call starting at eleven p.m. – or that didn't have the option for Beckett to take part in it – would go well. And why had he never met him? That seemed deeply odd.

But… Beckett was there, in the Hamptons, in his house, with him. Not with some mysterious O'Leary-cop. So whatever O'Leary might be to her, he was _not_ a rival to Castle. Hmm. That was…intriguing.

He took his intrigued self to his own bedroom, stared longingly at Beckett's door, firmly told himself to leave well alone – especially since there would be weeks more of summer in which to move forward – and disposed himself to sleep.

Deep in the summer night, something woke him. He listened carefully, but heard only the whispering of the soft night breeze, the ripples of the sea. He turned over to bury his face in the pillow, and heard it again. It was Beckett, and it sounded like she was crying.

He fell out of bed, found a robe, and padded to the door of her room to listen. After a few seconds, he started to turn back, when the unmistakable noise of a half-sob came again. He tapped on the door, received no response, and pushed it gently open, ghosting inside so that if she were asleep, he wouldn't disturb her.

She didn't turn to see who had entered. The covers were half over her head, only the dark crown faintly visible: she hadn't closed the curtain and the moonlight painted pallid gleams across the wooden floor. He slipped round to find her eyes open, staring blindly into the room.

"Hey," he murmured, "are you okay?" He already knew that she wasn't: the dim light was still sufficient to show the shine against her cheek. He settled down on the rug at the side of the bed, reached up and laid a hand on her shoulder, careful not to overstep. Her hand emerged and met his, and he turned to her and simply held it: his fingers loosely wrapped around hers, providing only the lightest of support through his touch.

"I ran away," she bit out, acid etching each syllable on the silent night. "It's what I do. Run away."

Castle waited, and said nothing.

"I was going to run away from the hospital. Just go. Not tell anyone, just leave." The sound of a swallowed sob. "Disappear without a word. Come back when I was healed. It's what I do," she said again. His fingers clenched around hers.

"If you hadn't pushed." He could hear the dammed up tears in her voice. "I would never have said. Not then. Not now." She pulled her hand away. "Not ever."

Castle stood up and promptly sat down on the bed, turning her back to him and tugging her into his arms. "Why not?" he asked, softly enquiring, no accusation in his tone.

"It's too much. It… you really meant it but – you _fix_ things. You always make the broken things better and I didn't want to be just another broken thing for you to fix."

The tears finally escaped. "Sometimes you just can't fix things."

Castle gave in to his desire and wrapped her in so tightly that she couldn't have moved if she'd tried. Beckett didn't even notice. He became aware that the top of his robe was damp, and becoming damper.

"I can't fix Dad so I just ran away. I couldn't fix _us_ so I was going to run away from that too." Her shoulders heaved within his clasp. "I could only fix me. And I'm not fixed." Her voice fell away almost to nothing. "Here you are trying to make it better and I shouldn't be leaning on you but…" She stopped. "I said I wouldn't."

"You aren't," Castle pointed out. "I'm not doing anything for you that I wouldn't do for any visitor. You even carried dishes, which I normally wouldn't ask a guest to do."

Beckett's head didn't lift. "You invited me here, though."

"Yes." She shuddered. "I want to see you in a bikini. You've been having naughty conversations with me for nearly three weeks and provoking me and now, Detective Beckett, it's time to make good on the promises." He petted her. "I want to see a mermaid," he said childishly. "You said you'd been flipping your flukes and I want to see a real mermaid."

"I am not a mermaid," she said soggily.

"Awww. No fair." He paused. Heated flirtation had worked every time for the last three weeks, but… then he hadn't been cuddling her with both of them in some very skimpy nightwear and basically in bed…. This was a bad idea – but he was going to do it anyway.

"If that's not true," he growled gently, "what else that you told me wasn't true? You told me that you would buy strawberry lip balm. Did you?"

"No…" she faltered, confused.

"You said you liked me kissing you, too," he husked. "Wasn't that true?"

"Huh?"

"You said you liked me kissing you." He smiled wolfishly into her hair. "Come and let me do something you definitely like."

"What?"

He didn't answer in words. He simply tipped up her face and planted a kiss on her forehead. She squeaked in surprise, but he could see her eyes welling up and leaking over. "Hey, stop that. You'll upset me. I only kissed you 'cause you said you liked it. Now you're crying and Espo will shoot me."

She shook her head.

"You did like it?"

There was a damp nod.

"Good. Because I really liked it, and I wanna do it again."

And upon the word, his lips descended to hers, his arms rearranged themselves so that she was appropriately aligned and his fingers could creep into her hair, and he kissed her properly.

She wasn't wearing any lip balm, but she tasted of heaven when she opened to him and flowed against him and explored just as he did: none of the adrenaline or terror or desperation of that first, only, kiss in an alley. Only them, and the still peace of the moonlit night.

His mouth moved over hers, asking for more but never demanding it, teasing but not taking. He could feel the wet skin from her tears against his cheek, and didn't push or press. Love was the key, here, not passion. There would be time enough for passion, if only they could establish love. But then she stopped, drew back, folded against him with her head down once more. He only petted, soothing her until she should speak again, or kiss him, and nuzzled his nose deep into her hair; the familiar cherry scent of Beckett: injured, cast on, miserable or not she was still his Beckett.

"I can't fix it," she whispered hopelessly. "So why do I feel so guilty?"

"Because you're human," he answered. "Only human, and you want to fix things just as much as I do. It's why you do what you do. Always looking for the answers, for justice. It's a way of fixing things."

"The dead don't need to be fixed," she said bitterly.

"Don't be dumb. You help their relatives. The ones left behind. That's fixing." He didn't want to start an argument there and then. "It's late. Sleep now, argue in the morning." He gathered himself together, and tucked her back under the covers.

She reached out, awkwardly with her left hand, and gripped his wrist. "Don't…" but then she didn't seem to know what to say next, though the grip didn't change.

"Don't what?"

"Stay," she mumbled, and immediately released him to hide herself.

Castle untangled the total disconnect of _don't stay_ but hanging on to him to mean _don't go, please stay_ , which made rather more sense.

"I can stay," he reassured her. "But my bed is a lot bigger, so could we go there?"

An indeterminate noise floated out from the lump hiding in the bed.

"I'm taking that as a _yes_ ," Castle decided, swiped the covers out the way, picked Beckett up and winced at the lack of weight, and conveyed her, ignoring the indignant squawking, to his own room. He placed her carefully on the bed, ensuring there wasn't the slightest bump that might jar her wounds or wrist.

"Snuggle in."

"Uh?"

He pulled back the cover on the opposite side to his. "Snuggle in. Plenty of room for both of us." Beckett sat there with as much evident intelligence as a stump. "You wanted me to stay, there isn't room in that bed for both of us:" (there was, but he ignored that: he liked his own bed better) "therefore you are here, where there is room." He dropped his robe on a chair and took his own advice, wriggling down and settling himself comfortably.

Abruptly, awkwardly, she also wriggled down, pulling the cover over herself. After an uncomfortable moment, her hand crept across the expanse of bed between them, sought out his fingers, and entwined with them. It would do, for the present. Castle twined back, and didn't pull her into his arms.

Shortly, her fingers were lax and heavy, and her breathing had deepened and slowed into sleep. Castle, however, was nowhere near sleep. He was a night owl anyway, by preference, and though it was the small hours, he suspected that Beckett was unlikely to wake early. He lay in the dark, thinking.

Mostly, he thought that Beckett needed to take a long rest without any stress at all. Partly, he thought that she needed to be sure that she was doing the right thing about her father. He tapped out a search on his phone, which didn't help him. The nearest ACOA wasn't hard to find, but she'd need to want to go there first.

And partly, he thought that she needed to be cuddled and cosseted and tucked into him. Held up, without being smothered. Left to fix herself at her own pace. He could be strong enough to let _her_ be strong enough. To wait, and let her take, not force his giving upon her. No risk that she would take too much: she'd never taken anything.

Except his heart. She'd taken that without even realising, five weeks after he'd met her. But then, it seemed that he had taken hers.

His eyelids grew heavy, his breathing slowed, and he drifted closer to slumber. Through the hazy half-doze, he became aware that Beckett was moving, still breathing in the deep, even cadence of her own sleep, turning over. Turning into him, curling closer, the cast landing on his stomach (he oofed, but she didn't twitch); he slipped an arm under her neck, and was rewarded by an unconscious snuggle inward and a happy-sounding murmur. The cast wasn't exactly comfortable, but discomfort was easily outweighed by the sheer delight of a snuggly, sleeping Beckett wrapped around him.

He followed her into peaceful sleep, himself relaxed and soothed of soul by her unconscious trust and the revelation inherent in her actions.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Beckett woke in an unfamiliar room, alone, surrounded by plentiful pillows and the almost-overwhelming aroma of Castle's very familiar cologne. Gradually her sleepy eyes attained focus, and she looked around an enormous room, with another en-suite off to one side, and a completely eclectic decor featuring a full-size anchor. She lay there for a few minutes, trying to work out why she was in that room rather than the one in which she'd begun, until memory floated back and the previous night's happenings re-emerged. So there she was, having wept all down him, tucked up in Castle's bed. It was worryingly comforting.

She emerged from the bed, made herself more comfortable, and – there was no point in faked modesty, after all: he'd slept with her in the sloppy tee all night and anyway she was _sure_ he'd seen her naked, whatever he had said, when he'd fished her out of her blown-up bathtub – wandered out to try and find her way to the kitchen, where there was sure to be coffee.

After a couple of wrong turns – the house (mansion?) was enormous and last night she'd been in no state to explore or remember anything – she found the kitchen and a familiar coffee machine, just the same as at the loft. There was no sign of Castle, but she could make that machine function, and so, awkwardly, she did. Clasping her coffee close to her – dropping it would not improve anything – she followed the faintly-remembered route from last night out and went past the empty table, round the corner to the same sitting area, and found both couch and Castle, tapping at his laptop and alternating frowns with scowls. She surmised that he was editing, and didn't disturb him: sitting safely at the other end and sipping her coffee. From the heat of the day, it was late morning at least – where was her watch?

Oh. How could she possibly have forgotten? She hadn't had her watch the previous day. Or the day before that. Not, in fact, since she'd left the cabin. She hadn't... she couldn't bear to pick it up: to remember when he'd got dry. So she'd left it with her brief note up at the cabin in the Catskills. _This is for the life I saved_. Except she hadn't kept it safe, had she? He was head down in whisky all over again, and this time he'd already dragged in her one constant, Castle. Last time... O'Leary had stayed – been kept – well clear, though when it had all come crashing down he'd been there to pick her up and steer her home. She'd almost pushed away his friendship over that, till it had been clear that he wouldn't talk and wouldn't judge and wouldn't ever, ever ask: and then she'd told him just enough, and told him why she couldn't talk about it more, and it had been okay, and then better, and then he'd become her best friend...

At least until Castle had come along.

But her father had dragged Castle into the mess that was their life – definition of the Beckett family, that, she thought bitterly. Look up _mess_ in the dictionary – with _dysfunctional_ – and you would find _Beckett_. She'd wanted Castle left out of it, and her father had laid into him. Then, as soon as he'd said _come up here_ she'd gone trotting off without a backwards glance and how could she stop him getting into the mess? She hadn't even thought of that: he'd offered, she'd practically bitten his arm off in her haste to accept, just to be with him and lean on a broad, strong shoulder...

Fuck. Exactly what she hadn't wanted to do. And what had she done? Fallen off the train into his arms and burst into tears like some feeble idiot.

She looked at her empty wrist again, as a drip fell on it. Under the guise of needing to find more coffee, she rose and left Castle to his work, went back inside and managed to find her room, fell on the bed and wept, silently. She'd waited so long for her father to be sober, counted the days and hoped beyond all sense and reason, buried herself in work to stop herself calling him every minute after he exited rehab... worn his watch every day since he'd given her it.

Until she'd left him to it, with his watch. All over again.

* * *

Castle had noticed Beckett sit down, but, desperately needing to focus on his edits, which were complex and in at least one case had identified a major timing issue which required substantial corrections, had left her to her coffee, knowing that most of the time she needed to down three cups before she attained sense, never mind civility. When he looked up again, some time later, she wasn't there.

He checked the time – ugh, long past lunchtime – and padded off to the kitchen to find some sustenance. On the counter was a single, used, coffee mug and not the slightest hint of anything else. He recalled that Beckett had been rather underweight when he'd scooped her up the previous night – correction, she'd been horribly lighter than he'd been expecting – deduced that she hadn't had lunch, and considered the extensive contents of the fridge and cupboards.

"Beckett?" he called. "Lunch time. What do you want?"

Answer came there none. Castle padded softly through to see whether he could find her, and found only a shut bedroom door, which he contemplated with some dismay. He had promised not to smother her, to let her do it for herself. On the other hand, she couldn't be left to starve through misery. He tapped briskly on the door, and hoped that he'd made the right choice.

"Uh, yeah?"

"Beckett, it's lunchtime. Do you want anything?"

There was a noticeable pause. "Oh." As if she hadn't noticed the time. "Yeah. Give me a minute."

"Sure. I'll be in the kitchen."

Some several minutes later Beckett dragged in. She was wearing denim short-shorts and an old t-shirt, which wouldn't have worried Castle at all (especially not the Daisy Duke style shorts, which showed off her excellent legs to best effect) except that she had on precisely no make-up and her eyes were red. He didn't comment, though all he wanted to do was hug her and make it all better.

"We've got lots of food. French bread, cheese, meat... ooohhhh, cold meat pies... salad... fruit – I've got strawberries, Beckett! Would you like a strawberry milkshake? There's lots of ice cream."

"Uh?" she said.

"Milkshakes?"

"Oh... yes, please."

"And food. No burgers, but I could take some out the freezer and fix them on the grill for dinner... What do you want to eat for lunch?"

There was a rather uncomfortable pause. Castle waited, perfectly certain that Beckett didn't want to eat anything and didn't want to admit it to him.

"The bread and cheese, please, and salad. Can I take something out?"

"Give me a minute to cut it, and then you can take the bread."

Castle efficiently sliced the baguette into tartines, plopped them on a plate, and handed it to Beckett, who departed with it. As soon as she'd gone, he mixed the salad and opened the cheese, put out some pie because he loved it and maybe she'd have some, and when she returned handed her the salad.

"Milkshakes coming right up."

"Thanks."

By the time all the food was on the table, the milkshakes were ready too. Castle tipped the mix into two very tall glasses, found a couple of straws, and brought them out. Beckett hadn't so much as touched a lettuce leaf. Under his eye, she took a slice of bread and picked out some salad, arranging it on the bread very slowly. Castle declined to comment, and concentrated on cutting a slice of the pie. When he looked up again, a small amount of cheese had joined the salad. He took some greens, and wondered how to start a conversation that wouldn't include _for God's sake eat something, you're a skeleton in training_. She wasn't even trying her milkshake, though her hands were on the glass.

It took him another moment to realise that she wasn't wearing her watch. He couldn't recall if she'd been wearing it yesterday. He remembered very clearly the night she'd told him why she wore it: let him in for a minute – and then shut him out again. _My dad took her death hard. He's sober now. Five years. So, this is for the life that I saved_. Uh-oh. Her dad wasn't sober any more. And Beckett wasn't wearing the watch. He didn't say any of that.

"I made you one of my extra-special milkshakes with fresh strawberries and the very best vanilla ice cream and you won't even taste it," he whined instead. "Don't mermaids drink milkshakes?"

Her eyes came up from the table. "There are no such things as mermaids, Castle! And even if there were, I'm not one of them."

He pouted at her, adorably. "In that case you could at least _try_ the milkshake. It's very unkind of you to ignore it."

"Ohhhh!" Beckett expostulated. "Okay then. I was thinking. We don't all need to shovel down food like a starving tyrannosaur."

"Is that what Espo does?" She ignored that.

"I'll get there."

He simply widened his eyes and produced his best pleading puppy-dog look. It never failed.

It never failed to irritate Beckett, that was. It didn't fail that time, either. She positively growled at him, which was a huge improvement from silent misery. "Stop it. You look ridiculous."

"Everyone else says I look adorable," Castle riposted. "Do you need your eyes checked?"

"No. Trying to look cute doesn't work on cops. It's just childish."

"Happiness keeps the wrinkles away, and children still understand the wonder of the world around them," he said, deliberately sententious. She growled again, but in between the two growls she'd gulped down a goodly proportion of the milkshake, though the open sandwich hadn't risen from her plate. He'd take that. At least it was some nourishment, and here in the sunshine it was horribly clear that she was still too thin and far, far too tired.

"Anyway, you love my behaviour," he added provocatively. She didn't reply. "See, you can't deny it." Still no answer. "So when we've eaten our lunch" – he stressed _eaten_ , but she didn't twitch – "I'll make coffee and we can sit round the corner and dabble our toes in the pool." He had a thought. "How long is that thing on for anyway?"

"It's been a month. I guess I should call the doctor to see if I can get it off."

"Sure. I've got a doctor nearby who can take the cast off, rather than go all the way back to Manhattan for a ten-minute job." He grinned. "Then you can go swimming. What's the point of the pool if you can't use it?"

"You can use it. I'll sunbathe."

"Sunbathe?" he managed not to squeak. "Like, in a bikini sunbathe?"

"Yep."

"You'll need lotion on." He smiled rakishly, eyes bright blue and small crinkles appearing round them. "Since you can't do it, I'll just have to do it for you. Anyway, you said you'd like it if I rubbed lotion into you." He remembered that conversation very clearly. Right up till the point Jim Beckett had dropped something and the whole thing had gone south in a hurry. "Do you need help with the bikini?"

"No, I do not." That was a shame. He'd happily have helped her change.

"Well, if it's too difficult, this corner is totally private so you could leave it off," he said helpfully.

From the searing glare, Beckett didn't find that as helpful as he did. On the other hand, she'd taken a bite – well, more of a vicious chomp actually - of her sandwich, and the rest of it was disappearing down her throat. It was followed by a slice of the pie, the milkshake level dropped, and Castle noted with considerable relief that once she had started to eat, she was clearly hungry. She disposed of another sandwich and more of his excellent pie in short order, and sat back.

"Better?"

"Yep."

"So now do I get to see the bikini?"

She rolled her eyes despairingly. "First, I'm going to call my doctor. Then..." she trailed off enticingly.

"Bikini?" Castle asked hopefully.

"I don't know. I might go for a walk on the beach." She stopped. "Oh. I need to do the physio exercises."

The expression on her face suggested that she didn't want to do them with an audience. Castle just about got that. Weakness wasn't a Beckett-approved trait, and displaying it still less so.

"Okay, well, do them by the pool while I clear up and finish off my edits. Ugh," he added gloomily. "I hate edits."

Beckett smirked at him, though it was a weak effort compared with those she'd produced before her shooting. "Not so perfect a writer after all?"

Castle grumbled gently. "Go do your exercises. Or call the doctor." He humphed at her till she stood up and went through into the house. Shortly, as he cleared up, he heard the cadence of conversation, and then – _oh, god, that doesn't sound good_ – the hard clack of irritated-Beckett stride.

"What's up?"

"They won't take it off till they've done an X-ray to check," she spat. "It's _fine_. I don't need an X-ray, I just need them to take it off."

"We can get that done here, you know," he placated. "Do you want to call or shall I?"

The solution stopped her in her tracks. "We can? I didn't think – your doctor can do an X-ray?"

"Sure. So you don't have to trek back to Manhattan. Give your guy" –

"Woman. This is 2011, not 1950" –

"Whatever. Give them a call and see if they'll send the record up – can they e-mail it? Wait a minute till I call my guy and get their e-mail."

Castle, having been given a way to help without actually interfering, was dialling before Beckett could open her mouth. Three minutes later, he handed her the e-mail address, and she departed to have a less aggravated conversation with her own doctor.

"They'll e-mail them. Um... could you make me an appointment, please? They likely won't see me if I ask."

Castle called the practice again, explained briefly, and handed the phone across to Beckett, who wandered off out of earshot, by which he was a tad surprised. He wasn't aware that cast removal was particularly sensitive.

When she returned, a happy smile was plastered over her face. "They'll see me tomorrow, at ten." Abruptly her face fell. "I can't get there."

"I'll take you." Surely that was obvious?

"But..."

"I need to get some things too. Paper, ink cartridges, that sort of thing."

Her face cleared again. Silly Beckett. How did she think she would drive with a cast on? He didn't need to get anything – normally he simply ordered online and had it all delivered, but if it made her feel better... a little fib didn't hurt.

More to the point, she wasn't getting her mitts on _his_ Ferrari. Nuh-uh _no_. He never got to drive her car, and she wasn't going to have the fun of driving his.

"Now, off you go and do your exercises," he instructed. Naturally, she bridled at the tone. "I want to swim while it's hot, and you'll distract me." He waggled his eyebrows insinuatingly. "All that lovely lithe figure on display... I might drown if you distract me too much."

"Not likely."

"You'd rescue me?"

"I guess. It's in the job description."

"I'm wounded. Surely you'd want to rescue me for my charming personality."

"Or because I can't do my own sun lotion."

"I can certainly help you with that," Castle oozed. "Whenever you'd like."

She blushed scarlet. It appeared that cool-cat Beckett remembered their conversation about sun lotion too, and was distinctly not-cool at the memory. "I need to go do these exercises," she stuttered, and decamped at speed. Castle grinned at the space where she had been, and finished the clearing up without having to worry about broken-armed Becketts getting in his way and disturbing his composure. Then he bounced off to find the sun lotion and change into his swim shorts. He didn't hurry, not knowing how long her exercises would take, but when he eventually ambled round she appeared to be done, parked on the cane couch and staring into space.

"Done?" he asked.

She jumped, focused on him, and her eyes widened. Much to Castle's appreciative amusement, she appeared to have got her eyes stuck on his bare chest. After a few seconds, her gaze slid not up to his face, but down, at least until she realised and jerked it back up.

"Yeah," she said, a little breathlessly.

"I'm going to swim," he noted, superfluously. "You could find your bikini and come sit and watch my honed muscularity cutting through the water."

Strangely, that didn't provoke a hoot of deflating laughter.

"I don't know, Castle," Beckett eventually managed. "Are you sure you can resist the urge to show off?"

"Are _you_ sure you can resist the urge to run your hands all over my dripping body?" he riposted.

She made a face and stood up. "Enjoy your swim," she said, and sauntered off, swinging her hips. How was he supposed to enjoy swimming (which he normally adored) with _that_ picture in his mind?

He plunged into the pool, which was helpfully cooler than both the air and his over-imaginative self, and began to power through lengths, trying to concentrate on his stroke, not on stroking Beckett.

When he came up for air, metaphorically speaking, twenty lengths later, still not free of the vision of Beckett in very short shorts, his brain was instantly wiped. There on a lounger – which had previously been in a somewhat different alignment and _why_ had she moved it herself, _aaargghhh_ – was a bikini clad Beckett, lying on her front with her face towards the pool. It was a very _small_ bikini. Tiny, in fact. Green. Tiny. Tiny. Green... and then she moved a little and _tiny_ suddenly wasn't covering very much at all. It wasn't _quite_ a thong. He gathered his game. Then he re-gathered it, thought some deflating thoughts, and tried to gather it again. A few more gatherings later, he could get out of the pool without disgracing himself.

"Do you want me to rub lotion on your back?" he asked suavely. "I wouldn't want you to get sunburn."

"That would be nice," she said, very cool and collected. It was, Castle thought, a terrible shame that the tiny, green bikini didn't hide her reaction to him in the slightest. She could hide her eyes behind those large sunglasses – but not the rest of her. The rest of her was thoroughly interested. He might not be able to see her front, but there was a line of colour in her cheeks and a sensual, feline smile quirking at her lips. Then she nibbled her lip.

 _Game on_.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers, guest and named._


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

"Have you a clip to keep your hair out the way?"

"No... ugh. I need one. I don't want lotion in my hair."

"I'll get one." He scooted inside, found a stray hair tie that Alexis had left, and scooted out again. "There. Just stay there, and I'll do it." He twisted her hair into a messy bun, and wound the band around it to hold it off her elegant neck.

He picked the bottle of sun lotion up from the table beside her, and squeezed a dollop into his hand.

"Ready?" and there was more behind the words than simply the application of sun lotion.

"Do your worst."

He intended to do his _best_ , and his best was very good indeed. His fingers weren't only experienced on a keyboard. He smoothed lotion across her shoulders, and began to massage it in, taking care to work out all the knots in her muscles as he went, eliciting happy little contented purrs as his firm hands ranged across her and down below the tie of her bikini top. Another dollop of lotion arrived in his palm, and he started on her lower back, still working through knots, noting the protruding vertebrae and the barely covered cage of her ribs without comment. He kept massaging, and she relaxed under his masterful touch, arms down by her sides, the cast deeply incongruous with the deep green bikini.

"Shall I do your legs?"

"Mmmm, please," she hummed.

He took it slowly, starting at her ankles, working carefully up slim calves, the backs of her knees, above, not hurrying, but gradually rising higher and higher. Her breathing became shallower, quicker, as his hands rose. Smooth sexuality seeped into the air around them: Castle's fingers still didn't hasten. Anticipation, after all, was the best sauce. He was certainly anticipating.

"Higher?" he murmured.

"Mmmmm."

With full permission, he was precisely where he'd wanted to be, stroking lotion into the endless gorgeousness of Beckett's inordinately long legs. Shortly, she would turn over, and then he'd start on her front, just like the phone call. His palms rubbed gently, his fingers pressed, he reached the edge of her bikini bottoms and her breathing was ragged-edged but he didn't go one tiny fraction of an inch beyond the line of decency though he was certainly right up on it. It didn't stop him paying particular attention to the edge of the fabric, or the space where the high cut exposed the majority of her hips.

"There," he said, a half-octave below normal. "That's all done. Turn over?"

The atmosphere of lush, warm sensuality shattered on the instant.

"No." Pause. "Thank you."

There was a note of – uh? Worry? Fear? – in her voice; a sudden discomfort. Castle's own arousal fell apart as fast as Beckett's clearly had.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just wanna lie on my front."

He didn't believe that for a second. "C'mon, what's up? It's me here." He swallowed. "I saw you in hospital full of tubes and wires – and you were still gorgeous. I'm not bothered about your wounds."

" _I_ am."

She buried her head in her lounger, but her arms didn't come up. Castle surmised that she couldn't raise them that far, even five plus weeks after getting out of the hospital. He patted her back.

"C'mon. You can't stay on your front for ever. You'll be parti-coloured: brown at the back and white at the front. That would be weird. Unique, but weird."

"I don't want to."

"I told you, I don't care about the scars. You can't spend all your time face down."

"Can so," she said very childishly.

"Okay," he acceded. "You can. I'll go call this O'Leary cop, and you can stay here and bake."

That worked.

"You won't without me" – Beckett swung her beautiful legs off the lounger and heaved herself up in a severe, if awkward, hurry – and Castle caught both her hands and held her so that he could clearly see her torso.

There was a moment of painful, ghastly silence. The damage was... less than he'd expected, but no less horrible for that. The wound between her breasts was raised, red and livid: an ugly carbuncle on the perfection of her skin. The slice from the surgery was neater, but still red and angry, fading slightly at the ends. Castle stared, unable to remove his transfixed gaze.

"Happy now?" she spat acidly at him, and tried to tug her hands free.

"How are you still _alive_?" His shoulders shook as he continued to stare. "Oh, _Kate_. How?" He pulled her into his arms and held her as close as he could. She... she had been dead, and looking at those remnants – only _remnants_ , not even the original wound – he couldn't imagine how she had pulled through. "You could have been dead." His face buried itself in her hair, which disguised the wetness spilling from his eyes, and his arms tightened further. "You could have been," he repeated. "Don't ever do that again. Please, don't."

She was rigid in his grasp: he couldn't feel a hint of easing. It occurred to him that she was terrified, not mad.

"You pulled yourself through," he murmured damply. "I'm so glad you did." There was a hint of softening. "Kate, please" – he lifted his head a fraction – "look at me."

She took a long, frightening moment to unfurl from below his cheek, and when she raised her face, though there was a defiant set to her mouth, her eyes were uncertain and almost scared, as if she expected rejection.

He took another long, deliberate look at each wound, not speaking.

"Haven't you seen enough?" she bit out. "They're vile. I know. Stop proving it."

Castle made a split-second decision. Aggravation _always_ worked. "Shush," he said. "I need to research. I've never seen a bullet wound up close before." He pouted at her. "Lanie won't let me into the morgue without you and anyway the ones in the morgue aren't healing. This is my one chance to see it and you're distracting me."

Beckett emitted a wordless, infuriated screech of pure rage. "I am _not_ some freaking research subject!" she yelled. "You insensitive _oaf_! You _lout_!" The rest of her tirade was abruptly stopped when Castle traced a finger beside the long gash on her ribs and then around the blot between her breasts.

"You're still beautiful," he said very quietly, and dropped a light kiss above the angry red. "And you're alive, which is far more beautiful than anything else."

She fell forward against him, sobbing – at least, her shoulders were shuddering though there was no sound. He collected her back into his arms, and held her until the shaking stopped, murmuring softly and meaninglessly into her hair: _don't cry, I've got you, it's okay_.

"It's not okay. Dad's drinking and it's _not okay_ ," she wept. "I just ran away from it and here I am leaning on you when I need to do it myself..." She dissolved again. Castle simply held on, and waited for the storm to pass.

"You're hardly leaning on me," he said into an exhausted silence. "You only arrived yesterday" –

"And what was that in the middle of the night? Me leaning on you. Or did you not come in and then take me back to your bed because I couldn't cope with being on my own?"

"You sleeping in my bed isn't a hardship for me," he pointed out. "You should do it a lot more often."

"So you can deal with my nightmares?"

"No, so I can cuddle you in. I never had a teddy bear when I was small. You're a very good substitute."

"What?"

"Now that you're listening, let's get a few things on the table. You aren't leaning on me. I invited you. You came. If it makes you happy, you can pay for groceries or buy me dinner or knit me a damn sweater if you want to" –

"I can't knit."

"Whatever. But stop saying you're leaning on me because you're not. You wouldn't even when you should have and you aren't now." He rolled right over her incipient words. "Second, your dad isn't your problem. He's his problem. I'm sure there's an ACOA group here – God knows, there are enough addicts," he added bluntly, " – so if you want to go I'll take you. I can amuse myself while you're doing whatever they do."

"I can take myself."

"In what? You're not driving my Ferrari. And you can't drive until that thing" – he tapped the cast meaningfully – "is off anyway."

Beckett clearly hadn't considered either that he wouldn't let her drive the Ferrari or that he didn't have a second car somewhere. "Oh," she said, in a very small voice. Castle cuddled her some more. "But Dad... I just left him."

"Beckett," Castle said very patiently, "what did you learn last time?"

"Didn't cause, can't control, can't cure," she recited automatically. "Oh."

"Yeah. So what were you going to do with one arm, half fitness, and trying to recover from serious injuries, huh?"

"Oh," she emitted again. "But... he's all on his own and miles from anywhere and what if..."

"You know he was okay yesterday evening, because we each had a missed call." Castle left it at that.

"I guess..." she said slowly, "if he didn't call then I could call Roscoe PD."

"Yeah." He paused. "Now we got that fixed, come here."

"Huh?"

Castle didn't wait. He lifted her up into his lap and tucked her into a comfortable position which didn't involve the cast punching him in the stomach, raised her chin and kissed her.

And kissed her. And kissed her. Because kissing her the night before in the dark of her misery and exhaustion hadn't been like that. Kissing her in the bright sunshine and summer heat was entirely different because he could lean her back on to the lounger and lie beside her and rise above her, balanced over her on his elbows and pressing right where he wanted to, and still have her luscious, lush mouth wholly open to his exploration and conquest. He kept kissing, and she kept answering in kind, until finally he turned on to his back and lifted her over him to be pillowed on his chest with their legs tangled.

Neither of them said anything. Castle was far too comfortable and happy to spoil the moment. Beckett – well, he couldn't see her face, but she was softly curled around him so he reckoned she was pretty happy too. He petted gently, and she made a tiny contented noise and snuggled closer. They stayed close for some time, until Castle realised he was thirsty.

"Want a drink?"

"Uh..." She woke up a bit. "Yeah. Please."

"Uncurl, then. I can't get up."

She wriggled a little. "You sure? There are pills for that."

Castle spluttered. "I don't need pills." She quirked a mischievous eyebrow. "But _you_ , my dear detective, need to be mended." The eyebrow joined its fellow in a pitch-black scowl. "Nope. You can't lift your arms yet. Ergo, you are not healed. I'm not making you worse. You do that all on your own." The scowl was matched by a growl, which affected Castle not at all. "What would you like to drink?" he asked sweetly.

"Soda, please," emerged from Beckett's gritted teeth.

"Okay." He had a sudden thought. "And I can call your O'Leary-cop."

"He's not mine," Beckett flipped back.

"I can still call him."

Castle disappeared to find sodas and his phone, and since Beckett's phone was there as well, brought it too when he returned.

"O'Leary," he said, after his soda had vanished. "There's got to be a story there, since you – most unkindly – won't tell me about him." Beckett merely smiled enigmatically. Castle tapped his phone, and put it on speaker at her meaningful glare.

"O'Leary," rumbled into his ears. He'd never heard a voice that deep. It built bass resonances through his bones.

"Er, hey. This is Rick Castle?"

"Yeah. Beckett's boy."

"What?"

"Beckett's boy. Now, I gotta tell you, you 'n' me ain't gonna be pals iffen" – _iffen_? Who was this? _Iffen_? Didn't that go out as a mode of speech some time around 1930? – "you don't treat her good."

"Really?" Castle said coldly, already offended. "Well, I can tell you now that we ' _ain't gonna be pals'_ " – the quotation marks were audible – " _iffen_ you don't get your head out your ass. I don't take threats from you or anyone – give me that back, Beckett!"

"O'Leary," Beckett snapped, "you stop that right now. Castle's my friend and I don't care how long you've known me, you don't get to tease him like that."

"Aw, Beckett," subwoofed penitently into the air. "Din't mean nothing by it. You know that."

" _I_ know that. Castle doesn't. Now you say sorry to him, you big lunk."

She put the phone back down.

"I'm sorry," rumbled out of it. "I just wanted to see what you were made of. Can't let just anyone be with my pal" –

"O'Leary!" Beckett expostulated, craned over the phone.

"Oh, _okay_. Gee, your temper don't improve when you're on vacation. Anyways, what did you want, Castle?"

Castle recaptured his phone from Beckett's over-protective hunch. "Beckett suggested I invite you up here for a day. It doesn't sound like that's a good plan, though."

"Sure it is. I wanna meet you, and she wouldn't introduce me." There was a slightly shamefaced-feeling hitch. "I got all your books."

"So do lots of people," Castle said, still a touch irritated.

"An' I got all sorts of tales about baby Beckett," O'Leary offered. Beckett turned lobster scarlet. Castle raised eyebrows.

"O'Leary!" she growled.

"I'm thinkin' you'd like to hear some of 'em."

Castle began, rather unwillingly, to grin. Beckett was not grinning. Beckett was emitting a subsonic noise which made her sound rather like a cross cat.

"I might," he offered in turn. The subsonic yowl intensified.

"She tell you she was a rookie when she met me?"

Castle's generally amiable nature – and his curiosity – took over. "No."

"Mebbe I got a lot to tell you, then. Starting with how we met."

"O'Leary, I will _kill_ you," Beckett yelled. "You're not allowed to tell that tale!"

"But Beckett, your boy Castle here, him 'n' me are gonna be pals. Pals share stories."

By that point, Castle was struggling to control his laughter.

"You won't be sharing any stories about me because you will be _dead_ ," she threatened the phone.

"You can't shoot me. You're in plaster 'cause you fell over – an' I bet it was those heels" –

"It was _not_. I haven't worn a high heel since I" - she stopped. "Got shot," she finished, in a very different tone.

"Hey, now," O'Leary started. "None of that. You're here. An' I'm sure all those heels of yourn'll still be in your closet waitin' for you. You'll still be small, though."

Castle boggled. Beckett, _small_? Not in his estimation. Perfectly formed, sure. "Small?" he queried.

"I am not. Never mind that."

"O'Leary," Castle said, thoroughly intrigued, "how about you come up for a day?"

"Waaaalllll," he drawled, which amused Castle even further, "I guess I ain't on shift day after tomorrow, an' I got nothin' much else to do, so iffen you give me the address, I reckon I c'n find you."

"Okay." Castle reeled off the address. "Any time you like – after sunrise, though."

"Okay. An' don't let Beckett break anythin' else afore I get there. She c'n be right clumsy sometimes."

"Beckett?"

"O'Leary!" Beckett yelled again. "That's _not true_."

"Seeya day after tomorrow," he said cheerily, and was gone.

"Wow," Castle managed. "What should I expect? An earthquake? A tsunami? A hurricane?"

"Not stories," Beckett snipped.

"Ooohhh," he said annoyingly. "That means there are stories."

"There are no stories."

"I don't believe you," he singsonged. "I think there are stories. I'm going to enjoy the day after tomorrow."

"If I get this cast off tomorrow I will shoot the pair of you," she grumped, and lay back down on the lounger, face down, sulking.

Castle thought that Beckett was adorable when sulking, even if she was humphing to herself. He slid back into the pool, since she'd been so impressed by his wet, sleek self earlier, and indulged himself in some easy freestyle until he thought she might have stopped grousing to herself. He put his elbows on the edge, and surveyed her. Her face was turned toward him, and she was nibbling on her lip again. He concluded that she was impressed, even if she didn't want to show it, and pulled himself out of the pool, making sure that his biceps flexed attractively, to pad over and find his towel.

Beckett watched Castle from behind her sunglasses and tried not to let her tongue hang out. He was really most impressively muscled, and those swim shorts weren't hiding much. They hadn't been hiding much when he'd been kissing her, either, and it was just _not fair_ that she couldn't raise her arms above her head for long enough, or indeed at all, to wrap hands round his neck and hold him right there. On the other hand, she could ogle, and she did. Extensively. That would fuel her dreams in the right direction.

Her eyes wandered up and down his torso, examining the broad sweep of his pectorals, the tight abs – he'd hidden those well – and the...um...pretty package beneath them. Strong thighs, mmmmm, and a positively delicious ass. She thought about what strong thighs and glutes could achieve, and wriggled. Only a little, and she could and would put it down to the heat of the sun. Staring at Castle, her sulks evaporated like the drops of water hitting the tiles where he'd sauntered off to find his towel. She decided that he was just as attractive without water droplets trickling down his chest as with... though she had some considerably better ideas about how to remove them than a mere _towel_.

He could, she decided, make up for his instant rallying to O'Leary's traitorous side by coming back and kissing her some more.

And if all that lust was merely covering up her terror and shame at having simply left her father to the whiskey bottle and his own demons without even trying to help him, well, she wasn't thinking about that at all, because if she did she'd simply dissolve into a miserable mess of misery all over again.

It carried her through the whole evening, dinner outside, ignoring a missed call from her dad, coffee spent gazing at the stars within Castle's firm embrace, wishing she could channel some of the vast indifference of the sea and sky, and finally to bed. If she wept herself to sleep, no-one would have known it. Certainly Castle heard nothing.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

"Time to go, Beckett," Castle carolled happily from the kitchen. "Let's go see if you can go swimming and show me your flukes."

"For the last time, I am not a mermaid."

"Awww. No fun." He made big blue eyes at her as she arrived clutching a small purse. "I guess we'll have proof later."

"Let's go," she replied repressively, rolling her eyes.

Not long later, during which drive Beckett had eyed up every inch of the dashboard, gearshift, and steering wheel of the Ferrari so covetously that Castle was amazed she hadn't gone green from head to toe, they pulled up outside the doctor's establishment.

"Okay. You go do your thing, and I'll meet you in the Golden Pear Cafe – I'll send you the address."

"'Kay."

She slipped out of the car, and Castle pulled away to find some well patrolled parking. That done, he ambled along the streets for a little while, before making his way to the cafe, sending Beckett the address, and sitting down in the sunshine with excellent latte and a cinnamon bun for good measure. He found his small notebook and scribbled happily until a familiar cherry scent tickled his nose and he looked up to find a two-armed Beckett in front of him.

"It's off," he said, and then grinned. "You need plenty of sun on that arm." It was true, there was a very distinct line where the cast had been. Beckett rolled her eyes, half-heartedly.

"I'm just glad it's gone."

She looked around for a server.

"More coffee, Castle?"

"Please. And the cinnamon buns are really good and you didn't have much breakfast" –

"Compared to what? A starving lion? I had lots of breakfast."

"The pastries are delicious."

"Okay," she said resignedly. "Two lattes, please, a cinnamon bun and a raisin scone."

The raisin scone was delicious. So was Castle's cinnamon bun, of which half disappeared into Beckett's apparently ravenous maw before he managed either to protest or order her another one of her own.

"I thought you said you had lots of breakfast," he said plaintively. "Why are you stealing my pastry?"

"Guess I'm hungry."

"We could get some to go for tomorrow..."

"O'Leary's coming."

"Even better. We can share them."

"Better get two dozen, then."

"Uh?"

"O'Leary has a sweet tooth."

"He can't eat two dozen cinnamon buns on his own. That's just crazy. You're messing with me."

Beckett lifted an eyebrow, and declined to comment further. If Castle lost his cinnamon buns, that was his problem. She was going to keep hers well out of O'Leary's way.

"Do you need anything else?"

"No," she said after a moment's thought.

"Let's go home, then."

The casual statement punched through her gut. Home? Not her home. Castle's home.

"Okay."

* * *

"Are you going to do your exercises?" Castle asked after lunchtime.

"Did them this morning."

"Good. It's a lovely afternoon, we're totally alone, so it must be time to join me in the pool so you can admire my ruggedly handsome face and body." He smirked. "And you can put on that teeny-weeny bikini – hey, that rhymes! Aren't you impressed?"

"No. Doggerel is not impressive."

"Mean. You can make it up to me by putting sun lotion on my back. I'm always worried I'll miss bits, and sunburn is so uncool." Beckett sighed. "And then I'll do you." She glared. "I'll do your back. Really, Beckett, you have the dirtiest mind."

She stomped off to her room and defiantly put on the green bikini again, twisted her hair up and by the time Castle reappeared in his abbreviated swim shorts had applied her sun cream to everywhere except her back. She resolutely did not think the phrase _cutting off her nose to spite her face_.

Castle, whose lack of shyness and indeed modesty ought to have been legendary, bounced out and up to Beckett's lounger, where she was toasting herself. Bounce terminated on an unconcealed wince at the sight of the damage, and restarted when he spotted the lotion.

"Shall I do your back?" he chirped happily.

"Please," she said, and turned over to present it.

Castle's large hands touching her back (again, with a sharp memory of yesterday to provide anticipation) had some very strange effects on Beckett's common sense (vanishing) and physical state (heating up, rapidly). It wasn't even that he was doing anything inappropriate, because he wasn't.

He didn't need to.

Beckett sank into the gentle strength of Castle's massaging hands and dissolved into a warm puddle of woman-shaped liquid. Her eyes closed in bliss, her whole form relaxed, and in the heat of his fingers working out another series of knots she was eased and comforted.

Of course it couldn't last. Her happy sensual haze was rousingly interrupted by Castle wanting his back covered in lotion, which might be fair but wasn't fun when she didn't want to move from her happy puddle-ness.

She heaved herself up, and took the sun lotion from him. He was grinning evilly.

"Now, Beckett, try to control yourself around my sculpted body. You're not up to full strength yet."

She wasn't going to put up with that. She pushed back her sunglasses, and very slowly looked him up and down, touching her tongue lewdly to her lips as she did so. He couldn't control his reaction.

"Seems like it's not me who can't control myself," she noted coolly. "Are you sure _you_ can cope with my hands all...over...your...body?"

Castle took a very deep breath, which flexed his pecs in a particularly enticing way, and didn't noticeably...um... soften.

"Sure I can. I am not susceptible to your wiles."

 _Challenge accepted_. All thoughts of happy puddling were forgotten as Beckett's not insignificant competitive streak came to the fore.

"Sit down," she purred. Castle looked suspicious, worried, and just a little aroused – beyond the obvious, that was. He sat tentatively on the end of the lounger. Beckett wriggled on to her knees behind him and prepared to prove that he had far less control than he boasted.

It really didn't take long at all. Castle may have had wicked hands, but Beckett wasn't exactly inexperienced either, and kneeling up meant that she didn't have to raise her arms. Even so, she started with his shoulders, smoothing soft lotion in, kneading the hard muscles, stroking in any unsightly blobs or smears, every movement controlled, slow, and sensual.

Unlike Beckett, Castle didn't feel relaxed in the slightest. In fact, he was rigid, and as her hands slipped lower he became more and more tense. His breathing was heavier, and he appeared to have lost the power of speech, which was an interesting change.

"You're a little tense," she husked. "It's not too hard, is it?"

Castle choked. "No," he forced out in a strangulated rasp. "It's just fine – Beckett!"

She had to make sure that the sun lotion covered all of his back, which meant, naturally, that her fingers sneaked below the waist of the shorts.

He turned round, somewhat suffused about the face, which was a tad surprising since Beckett could plainly see that most of his blood was rather lower. She smirked.

"You wanna play that game?" he grated out. "Game _on_." And he pulled her into his lap and kissed her hard.

That was simply _unfair_. He was _cheating_. Kissing her like that sent her head into freefall, and he was _not allowed_ to wander his fingers under the top edge of her bikini bottoms to pet her ass. Not unless he planned to do something a lot more significant than petting, anyway. Which he wasn't, because he'd _stopped_.

"Now who's tense?" he gritted out, pulled away, and disappeared into the pool.

"Huh?"

She stood up, padded carefully to the pool so she didn't slip – no more broken arms, thank you – and sat down very cautiously on the edge, dabbling her toes in the warm water, letting it climb her calves. It felt fabulous. On the other side, Castle was determinedly freestyling up and down. She dropped gently into the pool, and found it to be rather deeper than she expected; almost having to stand on tiptoes. Castle didn't cease his laps, which was rather disappointing. She floated into range of his next length, forcing him to stop.

"Why'd you stop like that?" Castle's eyes skittered away from her, back, away again. "Castle?" interrogated very-definitely-Detective Beckett.

"Er..." Which was not an acceptable answer in any way at all. She elevated her eyebrows, which even in a tiny green bikini in a pool managed to be intimidating. Castle took a step back – most unfairly, he appeared to be able to stand without drowning. Beckett followed him. He went back again. Beckett followed him.

After a couple more steps, Castle hit the side of the pool and had nowhere to escape. Beckett half-floated in front of him.

"Why are you running away from me?" She floated against him, and stabilised herself by way of holding his chest, not being able to stretch up to his shoulders. _Oh_. Castle was...um...tense. As she looked properly at his face, he was clearly exerting considerable self-control.

"You're still _healing_ ," he bit out. "I" – he tried to turn away – " _said_. I'm not going to do anything that hurts you." He breathed in, slowly. "So _stop_ provoking me because it's _not fair_." He moved her aside, and started ploughing through the water again.

Beckett deflated, and let go to float a safe distance away, dejected. Ridiculously, she also felt rejected. She'd wanted to show how much she appreciated him. She couldn't even take out her frustration by swimming, which wasn't her favourite form of exercise anyway, because she couldn't use her arms properly for the stroke. She paddled to the edge, tried to clamber out, and couldn't do that either, which just put the tin lid on the last fifteen minutes. She sniffed, and blinked.

All she'd wanted was that Castle would make her feel loved. God knows, he was the only one that could. Her father couldn't, and most likely wouldn't. Castle could and did, but he wouldn't. She blinked harder. She couldn't even get out of the damn pool on her own, and her upset was tiring her. Likely she'd pushed her exercises a little too far, still straining to recover sooner, better, faster. The blinks gave up any attempt to hold back her emotion.

She fought her errant emotions to a standstill, forcibly steadied her voice, and turned round.

"Castle?" she called. "Could you" – she swallowed – "help me get out?" He stopped ploughing through the lengths, and swam up to her. "I can't lift myself out."

"Okay." An instant later, she was sitting on the side.

"Thanks."

She heaved herself up, found her towel to dry off, and flopped down face first on the lounger, miserable. In the background, she could hear Castle's splashing. Knowing that he was as frustrated as she didn't help one iota, since all the frustration was down to the simple fact that she'd been shot and she'd then slipped and added a broken arm. She knew she was sulking like a disappointed child, but right at that point, it seemed like absolutely everything was broken. Her, her family, and her not-even-begun-yet relationship with Castle. After a few moments, she slipped away inside.

Castle, having swum himself to exhaustion but yet not managed to cure his huge frustration that he couldn't just take Beckett to bed and treat her as she so very clearly wanted, hauled himself out of the pool without taking any satisfaction at all from his post on the moral high ground. He dried off, and only then realised that Beckett was absent. He expected that she'd gone to the bathroom or to get a drink, and would return at any moment.

Fifteen minutes later, she hadn't returned. It was also beginning to cool down as evening drew in, and Castle's damp swimming shorts weren't keeping him warm. He went inside, and noted with concern that Beckett's bedroom door was firmly shut. He'd knock after he was changed, he decided. Going in with only shorts on wasn't going to improve anything, and he couldn't hear sobbing.

Fully clothed, Castle re-emerged from his own bedroom (in which Beckett really ought to be installed if only either of them had been capable of exerting any self-control and _not_ giving in to the blaze waiting to erupt between them) and tapped lightly on her door.

"Yeah?" he heard.

"I'm going to get a drink. Do you want one? Soda, beer, wine?"

"Yeah, thanks. Whatever you're getting. I'll be out in a moment." The tone was almost normal. Castle jumped to the conclusion that Beckett was not normal purely because she hadn't expressed a preference, thought for a bare second, and went for a rather nice bottle of white wine which had been chilling in the fridge.

Just as he'd opened it, Beckett appeared, dressed in a light tee and shorts.

"That looks good," she said.

"Hope so. I saved it from my mother's clutches."

Neither of them mentioned Beckett's withdrawal. Instead, they sipped their wine and looked out over the ocean for a while.

* * *

Castle was about to ask Beckett what she wanted for dinner when her phone rang.

"Beckett," she answered, just as if it were Dispatch, making a _sorry_ sort of gesture to Castle. She stood up and started to wander out of earshot. " _What_?" Pause. "No. No, I'm on Long Island. I can't get there." Pause. Her face was iron-hard. "No. I won't come tomorrow. He's not my responsibility." Pause. Icy fury crept over her whole posture. "I said _no_. He can go home or go to rehab or go to hell for all I care. I did this for three years and I learned that it _does not solve anything_. So don't you try to guilt trip me, Officer. Do whatever you like with him, but don't contact me again."

She cut the call and dashed past Castle, who heard her door slam shut behind her. Well, that didn't take much interpreting. The local cops had clearly picked up her father, drunk. Fuck. Whatever she'd said on the phone to them, she was devastated. She knew she couldn't do anything, she knew she couldn't get sucked back into his downward spiral, and it was killing her already.

And he, Castle, absolutely could not get involved in any way at all without Beckett asking him for help. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. There was nothing he could do. He couldn't call the cops: they wouldn't talk to him. He couldn't – and wouldn't – call Jim directly, because Jim had basically tried to put all the blame on him for Beckett's shooting (when it had taken him four detailed sessions with a good and very discreet therapist to get past that straight _after_ it had happened, and he still wasn't sure he'd really got there) and that wouldn't start any discussion off well. He could, he supposed, answer if Jim called him, but Beckett might well see that as taking sides, and there was only one side Castle was on and it wasn't _Jim_ Beckett's. All he could do was hug _Kate_ Beckett, _his_ Beckett, but first he had to hope that at some point she would come out of her room and accept hugs.

He stared out at the empty sea, flat calm under the evening light, and waited. After a short while, he went to tap on Beckett's door, heard sobbing – muted, he thought, by a pillow – didn't bother with the tap and went straight in. She was standing by the window with her face buried in something that looked like her sleep tee, tears on her cheeks and misery in every lineament. All thoughts of waiting left his head: he simply strode across the room, came up behind her, turned her and wrapped her in.

As she had at the station two days earlier, she simply collapsed into him, strings cut. He held her up, and smoothed the dark hair on his shoulder. He couldn't say anything: master of the written word he might be, but in that situation there was nothing to be said, until she herself said something.

Her sobs ceased, to be replaced by shivering: there were goosebumps on her arms. Castle nestled her closer, and pulled the sleep tee from between them to drape around her. It wasn't much, but it was a whole lot better than nothing.

Finally she spoke. Spoke, Castle thought, was not the right word. Speech emerged from her lips with the same drenched quality as a monsoon.

"The Roscoe cops picked him up from a bar. Apparently he'd come into it a little _happy_. Got morose, knocked them back, couldn't walk out. Just as well. He'd never have remembered not to drive." She made an agonised noise. "If he killed himself... it would be awful. But if he killed someone else... there would be no coming back from that. Never." She stopped. "So I guess I should be glad they picked him up."

Castle thought that that might be the definition of extreme-Pollyanna-ism. Not that Beckett had managed to sound in any way cheerful about it. He stroked some more, and consciously tried to exude comforting strength, for as long as she needed. Her momentary flow of words had been damned, which Castle entirely understood. When the choice was a cell, Jim's death, or the death of innocents... there were no words; there were no good answers. Maybe a cell was the best answer, in the circumstances. At least that way, nobody died.

He held on. It was all he could do.

Their melancholy intimacy was broken by the grumble of Castle's stomach. She didn't even raise a flicker of a hint of a smile.

"Do you want some dinner?"

She shook her head. "Don't want anything." It sounded just as pathetic as the same statement coming from a small child. Castle, in one of his occasional fits of brilliant empathetic insight, realised that the similarity was because it was exactly that: a child mourning the loss of a parent.

All over again.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Jim came to with a pounding headache, nausea, and considerable discomfort in his neck and back. Distracted by his ills, it took him a moment to notice that he wasn't at home. He was in a cell. Quite specifically, he was in the tank. He couldn't remember last night, after he'd gone to the bar in Roscoe.

He vomited as it all hit home. Fortunately, there was a bucket. Mostly, he'd clearly managed to hit it, not that he remembered. He threw up again, and again, thin bile and acid self-disgust.

When his gut was empty, he took inventory of himself. Dressed. Relatively clean – at least there were no embarrassing stains or smells, beyond the foul reek of stale alcohol and sweat. His mouth was furred and disgusting.

And of course, he'd been arrested. He slumped back on to the bench, and wondered how he'd got to this state.

"Officer?" he said, when one came by. "Uh, what happened last night?" He could hardly bear the shame of asking.

"You couldn't walk out of the bar. So we took you in. Called your emergency contact, but she didn't wanna know."

The blunt, flat words were the last straw. Jim sat back down again, and faced the fact that Katie had meant every word of her note. She wasn't going to come and save him. She wasn't going to answer any of his calls.

He was on his own, to sink or swim.

* * *

Castle hadn't forced Beckett to eat anything, and she duly hadn't. She was shell-shocked, he thought. He surmised that she'd thought her dad would be shocked into going to rehab, but that hadn't happened either. So now she was sitting, utterly lifeless, hands drooped and motionless, no fire in her eyes.

He cleared his own plate, recorked the wine, and came round the table to hug her. It had no discernible effect on her slumped stillness: neither cuddling in nor pulling away.

"Coffee?" he attempted. She merely nodded: no enthusiasm. "I'll bring it round." He'd bring a wrap as well: her skin was chilled; but as he rose her hand reached for his; clutched it; released so very slowly.

"Thanks," she said, but dully.

He made the coffee, added vanilla to Beckett's and left his own untouched, and took it out, the wrap over his arm. She wasn't at the table: on a hunch he walked round and found her on the couch in the shielded nook where they'd stargazed the first night, the dim outdoor lights barely illuminating her figure.

"There you are," he said.

"Thanks."

She was looking out into the clear night sky and the stars, the thin crescent moon and the gleam on the water. He swathed the wrap around her shoulders, and followed up with his arm, gently encouraging her to lean on him. She sipped her coffee, and for a long while said nothing, though she leaned against him.

"Last time," she said, her voice cracking, "last time, I tried to fix it. I can't do that again. It didn't work then and it won't work now." A harsh breath split the air. "I didn't cause it," she intoned: the mantra of those suffering beside the alcoholic. "I can't control it. I can't cure it." Another fractured breath. "So why do I feel so damn _guilty_?"

Castle had no answer to that question.

"It wasn't _my_ fault that I got shot. I didn't deliberately slip on the steps and break my arm and crack my rib. But that's why he started again and if none of it had happened then he would have stayed dry." Her tone was raw, agonised. "If I'd listened to you before Montgomery..." she didn't need to finish that sentence. "If I'd listened none of this would ever have happened and Dad would be okay." She wrenched away from him, hissed in sudden pain and stood up anyway, pacing, each step taking her a little further away from him, closer to the dark night.

Castle was hit by a surge of guilt of his own: she'd hit far too close to Jim's infuriated, drunken words.

"It wasn't you. No-one could have stopped me. I wouldn't have listened to God Himself if he'd appeared. All I cared about was taking down Mom's killer, but it's destroyed Dad too."

She took another step, beyond the small puddles of artificial light. Castle wasn't reassured by her words, though his own emotions were soothed. The hairline cracks in her voice didn't give him the idea that she was coping in any way at all with her guilt.

"So it's my fault."

"No," Castle bit out into the darkness. " _Listen_ to yourself. You _can't control_ it. You can't change or control your dad. He bought the booze. He opened it, and _he_ drank it. That's on him, not you. Sure he loves you and he couldn't bear to see you dead but _he wasn't the only one who loves you who saw you die_!"

Silence fell.

"He wasn't the only one," Castle repeated into the stone-still night. "And I'm not drowning myself in booze."

Abruptly, horribly, he couldn't see Beckett. A second later, he heard her, dragging in ripped breaths with a ghastly edge of agony. He whipped over to find her hunched and kneeling on the grass, hauled her into his embrace, sat with her on the grass while she wept acid tears and her pain scraped her raw. He rocked her as if she were a child, though no child should ever suffer as she was suffering. All he could do was sit with her, hold her, and wait.

Long after the waning moon had set, leaving only the cold, dim starlight falling on the cold, dark sea, her weeping ceased. She stayed, exhausted in body, mind and soul, in Castle's arms, slipping in and out of consciousness and restless, nightmarish half-sleep, clinging to the one firm point on which she could rely.

"Kate, we have to go in now. It's too late to be out here."

She made a small, piteous noise.

"C'mon."

He stood and pulled her up, wrapped her in again and stood for a moment with her cosseted against him, then loosened his grip without letting go and walked her around the house and inside, where he hesitated slightly, then steered her into her room.

"I'll be back in a few minutes," he reassured, "so do whatever you do before bedtime." She wouldn't be sleeping in that room. She'd be sleeping in his room, where he could keep her close. He slipped out, prepared himself for bed, donned a robe, and forced himself to wait for another few minutes before he knocked on her door.

There was no answer, so he went in anyway. She was huddled under the covers, back to the door, just as she had been on the first night, and when he came round to her face there were the same thin trails of tears.

"Come on," he said, conscious of his repetitive vocabulary. "You're not staying alone tonight. He hoisted her up, receiving no protest but not much help either, and steered her out and into his room, pulled back the cover and installed her within. "Do you want me to stay now, or join you later?"

"Stay, please." It was barely audible, but it was what he'd been hoping for. He hopped into bed, wriggled down and then turned over to spoon her in and hold her tense body until – he prayed – it relaxed into sleep.

* * *

Castle woke, stealthy pre-dawn light creeping through the drapes, and sluggishly realised that he was alone. It was less than five hours since they'd slept, and he didn't want to be awake. His eyes closed again. When they reopened, it was full daylight, and the clock told him it was notably after eight. Beckett wasn't there.

Beckett wasn't in the kitchen, either. Nor was she at the table. Nor, when he went round, increasingly concerned, was she sitting on the couch, nor at the pool. Finally he spotted her, as far from the house as she could be, out on the dewy grass. When he reached her, she was huddled in his old robe, curled into a tight foetal position, and asleep. None of that could be defined as sensible. He surmised that she had sneaked out to think, and fallen asleep.

He knelt down beside her, saw with resignation and some irritation that there were, yet again, tear stains on her face, and gently shook her shoulder. A mutter of discontent arose, and then her eyes creaked open. She groaned, and creaked some more to be sitting up.

"Urrgh?"

"I found you out here," Castle said, a little edgily.

"Oh."

It was pretty clear that she wasn't yet focusing.

"Coffee?" he asked. When she was caffeinated, they were going to have a discussion. She could have – should have – woken him. She should have _talked_ to him, not sneaked off into the night to cry alone. He stalked back to the house without waiting for an answer, or for Beckett.

Beckett stretched, still seated, and found, unsurprisingly, that she was sore, chilled and cramped, and that sleeping on the ground, even accidentally, was as uncomfortable as ever. She hadn't meant to fall asleep, but she'd been awake, tossing and turning, and she hadn't wanted to disturb Castle when it was clear to her that she wasn't going to find any sort of rest: guilt squirming in her stomach and thoughts roiling in her mind. So she'd slipped out without disturbing him, and then she'd thought that she'd be better outside, under the cold stars and the slow creep of the grey half-light before dawn. The vast expanse of sky and sea might have helped.

It hadn't helped. All it had done was remind her how small she was, how petty, how much she owed her father for carrying her through the first weeks of her recovery. And she was repaying him in the bitter coin of rejection because he wasn't strong enough to resist his addiction and _she_ wasn't strong enough to watch it.

Her thoughts had meandered further. She had wanted to be strong enough for Castle, but she hadn't managed that yet. He could say the words again, and she couldn't force them from her torn lungs even once. Maybe, she'd thought, under the sullen pre-dawn light, maybe she just wasn't capable of loving anyone the way they deserved; maybe she'd lost that ability years ago, when she first fell down the rabbit hole in which she'd had one leg trapped ever since; maybe, never given, her heart was wizened and shut fast.

She wanted to be able to say it. She wanted to be strong enough. But at every turn she met only failure.

Maybe she'd lost her chance to be able to love.

And on that dismal thought, she'd feebly cried herself to sleep, devoid of strength, to be awoken by Castle, who was clearly unimpressed to find her out there. Another failure, in the long litany of how she couldn't even begin a relationship properly, let alone sustain it. His bitter words of a week or so ago rang in her mind. _That's the whole problem right there. You won't let me in. You don't want support. I just want you to behave like you actually want a relationship._

Yet again, she couldn't. What if she never could?

She sat on the ground, aching from sleeping on the ground, and stared into space, forgetting that Castle was making coffee, forgetting everything Al-Anon and ACOA had taught her, and forgetting that, full of tubes and wires in a hospital room, she'd found herself strong enough to tell him that she wanted to be strong enough to give it back.

Castle made two coffees, expecting Beckett to be sitting at the table when he'd finished. She wasn't. That was even more irritating than her not being there when he woke and sneaking out to deal with everything all on her own and not leaning on him like she should do. Castle, in fact, had forgotten in his turn the key point that Beckett had made: _you have to let me do it myself._ As he sipped his coffee, he became more irritated the longer she didn't appear. Well, he wasn't chasing after her. She could come get her coffee – which she had agreed to – or not. It wasn't his problem.

His irritation was enhanced by a loud knocking at his front door exactly simultaneous with Beckett dragging round the corner looking entirely unhappy to be anywhere near him.

"Your coffee's there," he snipped, "though it's probably cold."

He stood without ceremony and went to find out what new annoyance was disturbing his peace. When he flung the door open, though, annoyance was drowned out by astonishment. He hadn't been aware that Bigfeet lived in the Hamptons.

He looked up. And up. And up some more.

"Hey," rumbled the monster. "I guess you're Beckett's Castle. I'm O'Leary. Nice to meetcha." He extended an equally monstrous paw, which Castle, utterly stunned, automatically shook. The sight in front of him was certainly mind-blowing. The O'Leary cop was an easy six-ten, massively muscled with a huge chest and biceps that would have served as any ordinary man's thighs – twice over – with a buzz cut, homely smiling face and limpid blue eyes.

No wonder he'd called Beckett small. _Castle_ felt small.

"Guess she din't warn you."

"No," Castle managed. "Er... come in." Social graces kicked in. "Coffee? I've got some pastries. Beckett's outside." He didn't quite manage to stop the edge of irritation on the last sentence.

"That'd be nice," the Bigfoot pronounced, with a rather knowing look indicating that he'd noticed the edge.

Castle would have sworn that the bass was resonating through his polished wood floors, and hoped that they would survive the weight about to be placed on them without being dented.

Being followed through his house by the massive bulk of O'Leary – and regardless of his general irritation towards Beckett, he was deeply offended that she'd never introduced him, knowing how much he enjoyed the downright weird aspects of humanity – resembled being stalked by an adult grizzly bear. Unnerving wasn't the word. The hairs on the back of Castle's neck were fully risen. The O'Leary monster might have seemed harmless on the phone, but it was very obvious that if he took against Castle for some reason there would be only one possible ending – also known as _unhappy_.

"Cute place you got here," rumbled past him.

"Thanks," Castle managed, still in shock, as they attained the kitchen without incident. (Castle's considerably over-active imagination persisted in presenting visions of O'Leary's transformation to a grizzly bear, Bigfoot, or Grendel and ripping his, Castle's, head off to suck out and eat the brains.)

"Coffee? How'd you take it?"

"Cream an' sugar, please. Nuthin' special, not like our girl out there."

O'Leary's immensity leaned on the counter and watched quietly as Castle made his coffee, one for himself.

"Not makin' Beckett one?"

"She's got one," Castle said brusquely.

A squirrel-tail masquerading as an eyebrow rose. "Never usually stops her."

"Yeah, well," Castle said in a closing-off fashion, and didn't make a third coffee. The second squirrel-tail joined the first, but O'Leary didn't comment.

The two men went out with their respective coffees, to find that Beckett was still at the table, staring into her barely-tasted drink.

O'Leary put his mug down, took two strides around to Beckett, plucked her up and enveloped her in a massive bear-hug, during which, without her feet touching the ground, he conveyed her another few seven-league strides away from the table. Castle's temper flared. She wouldn't let _him_ help her but she let this monster pick her up and hug her? The fact that nothing short of a Mack truck would be able to prevent the O'Leary mass doing anything it liked entirely bypassed his consciousness. He emitted a hostile growl, of which O'Leary took no notice at all. Beckett hadn't indicated in any way whatsoever that she'd noticed either of them, which considering O'Leary's actions was quite astonishing. He took a few steps towards them.

"What the hell is up with you, Beckett?" Castle heard O'Leary say. "You ain't drinkin' the coffee, you look like a bus ran you over, an' you an' your boy there are already on the outs. Even for you that's goin' some in three days."

Castle's incipient fury put itself on hold. That did not sound like O'Leary was muscling in to pick up a relationship of his own. That sounded like a big brother might. He didn't go any closer, being perfectly able to hear every word from where he stood.

"This about your Dad? Or is there somethin' else up you ain't sharin'?"

"Let me go," she said dully. "There's nothing else. Dad got arrested."

"Mm?" O'Leary hummed, the world's largest bumblebee.

"Cops called me to get him. Wouldn't go."

She stood straight, though everything about her screamed _slumped_ , not accepting any comfort from O'Leary. Castle watched, confused. O'Leary had said – no, _Beckett_ had said _I don't care how long you've known me_ ; O'Leary had said _she was a rookie when she met me_ ; and he sounded like her big brother. And Castle knew that Jim Beckett had been a drunk when Beckett had started as a cop...as a rookie...

His story instincts were hollering in his head. There was more to this relationship than he knew or had imagined – but most importantly right at that moment, Beckett wasn't talking to O'Leary either, despite the clear fact that he'd gone straight to the correct conclusion and must – surely? – have known about the first time round.

 _Oh, shit_. Lanie had said it. _Lanie_ had told him. _If she doesn't wanna talk, don't push her_. Lanie had heavily implied that when she – Beckett's closest friend, he had thought, though he was rapidly revising that conclusion – had pushed, it had gone very badly indeed. Just like it had been about to go very badly indeed when O'Leary knocked.

Castle continued to watch and listen.

"You wouldn't go?" O'Leary queried.

"No," she flared. "I did that for years and it never solved anything. I'm not going down that road again." She stepped back. O'Leary put his huge hands on her shoulders.

"Leastways you're doin' somethin' right," he drawled. "You can't fix him. Don't matter what you think 'bout why he's doin' it, you can't fix him. You gotta leave him to it. Just like last time."

So O'Leary had been there the first time round.

"He'll come out of it, or he won't. Ain't nothin' you can do."

"Abandon him, just like last time. That's what I can do," Beckett bit out. "You think I don't know that? Hearing it from you doesn't make it better or easier." She pulled away from O'Leary, and marched – stiff backed, and a wince at every step – as far away from him as she could manage. O'Leary shrugged, causing a small breeze to spring up, and ambled back towards Castle.

"Guess that coffee'll still be warm," he said.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers. Much appreciated._


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

O'Leary downed his coffee in one slug, apparently not needing to breathe since the mug and amount was tiny in comparison to his maw. "C'n I get another?" he asked hopefully.

"Sure," Castle agreed.

When he returned from the kitchen with fresh coffee, O'Leary was sitting at the table, a wary gaze centred on Beckett, who was still as far away as possible but was at least sitting down. Her back was to them, and it didn't look like she was going to move any time this side of 2050.

"What happened?" O'Leary asked, transferring his full attention to Castle.

"Roscoe cops called. They wanted her to go get her father. She said no. They tried guilting her. She handed them their asses and then spent most of the evening miserable. Then she snuck out and in the morning I found her asleep out here."

O'Leary hummed to himself. "An' then what? You have a fight?"

"No." Which had the advantage of being absolutely true, since O'Leary was watching him rather suspiciously. It occurred to Castle that size didn't preclude intelligence – and none of Beckett's friends were _dumb_. It behoved him to employ caution. "She'd barely got to the table when you arrived."

"Mmm. You din't sound too pleased with her." Pale blue eyes drilled into Castle.

He shrugged. "I wasn't."

O'Leary blinked, clearly not having expected that.

"She shouldn't be sleeping outside on the ground any time, and she sure shouldn't be doing it when she's not properly healed. She can't lift herself out of the pool so she's not fixed."

"Fair enough." Castle breathed more easily. "Now, how's about the rest of it? 'Cause I'm sure that ain't all."

Castle's opinion of O'Leary's intelligence rose another few notches, although he really didn't appreciate it being used to interrogate him.

"You don't have the right to ask me that."

"Mebbe not, but I'm askin' all the same."

"And I'm not answering, all the same."

O'Leary developed a slow smile. "Guess we're at a stand-off, then." The smile broadened. "How's about I tell you a bit 'bout Beckett 'n' me, while she ain't here to shoot me for it?"

"Knock yourself out," Castle said more happily, "but shall I get a big pot of coffee and some pastries? I've got cinnamon buns."

"Sounds good."

The major necessities of caffeine and sugar provided, Castle regarded O'Leary expectantly.

"Waalll," he drawled, " I met Beckett when she was still a rookie. She'd been put out on a Vice op, an', waal, I arrested her. She...um...din't take it so good, till I stuffed her in my unit."

Castle could well imagine, and grinned appreciatively.

"Anyways, we got talkin', an' then she got put in my precinct – I was still an officer then too – an' we worked together a bit. Got let do some softenin' up of the bad guys – everyone thought I'd be the mean one an' when she let rip it got them so turned around they'd spill. Nothin' important, though. Real detectives did that." He took an enormous slurp of coffee and disposed of a cinnamon bun in one bite. "But she was driven even then. Never stopped. Din't know why, though eventually she told me 'bout her mom, an' it's not like she's chatty 'bout anythin' outside the job."

"Not then either, most of the time."

"Waal, I guess that's true too. Anyways, she din't say anythin'. Soon enough, the Twelfth picked her up – Captain Montgomery'd had an eye on her for a while, she got made detective, I moved to Central Park an' got made detective a bit after. But we stayed pals, even though we din't work together any more."

His huge, moon face drooped. "Then I called her one evenin', 'cause she'd been a bit distant an' I thought a drink might fix it. She was totally wasted. I'm still not sure she knew she'd told me where she was. She was down in a bar in the Village. So I went down after her – she din't ask, I just showed up. Watched her throw them back an' took her home when she couldn't drink any more. She din't say why."

He disposed of another two cinnamon buns and a full mug of coffee.

"So I din't ask. Figured she'd tell me if she wanted me to know."

Castle winced.

"So that was it," O'Leary said with satisfaction at discovering the truth. "She wouldn't talk to you an' you were mad at her. Thought you'd been followin' her round long enough that you'd know that's a losin' game?"

Castle declined to be baited, and drank his coffee instead, capturing a cinnamon bun before O'Leary could eat the lot.

"She'll talk if she wants to. Till then, best you leave her to it. She'll come out of the sulks eventually."

Castle looked over to the small, hunched figure on the grass. "I wouldn't call it sulks. She's miserable."

"So'd I be." O'Leary looked very seriously at Castle. "You can't fix it for her. Took her months to tell me what'd been goin' down that night. Blamed herself for months more. Don't push her. She'll run, an' I don't guess that's what you're hopin' for. She'll come to you, iffen you let her be."

A sudden flashback to the day of the shooting: Beckett on the podium and (he was now sure) telling him through the eulogy that she'd chosen him to stand with her. She'd come to him, in that speech, long after hope had died with Montgomery in an aircraft hangar.

"We'll see," he temporised, and drank the rest of his coffee.

Some considerable time later, O'Leary and Castle were pretty pleased with each other. O'Leary had spun a series of tales of Central Park life, including the two drugged-up lowlifes who'd tried to swear they'd been menaced by a panther. "Which is totally dumb, because even toddlers know that there ain't panthers in the city. I guess it was Hallowe'en an' someone got a really good costume."

"Or they'd been watching too much True Blood."

"Most like."

There was a noise as of small rockslides, and O'Leary blushed. "Guess it's lunchtime. I'll go down into town" –

"No way. I've got plenty of food and soda. Beer if you want, but I'm guessing not if you drove up."

"Naw, thanks. Soda's fine."

They both glanced at the still, somehow bedraggled figure out on the grass.

"Should we try?" Castle asked.

"I'll do it. I don't know where anythin' is in your house an' anyways a man's kitchen shouldn't be messed with. Pete hates it if I mess with his cookin'." O'Leary magnificently ignored Castle's amazement. "'Sides which, Beckett can't hurt me. An' I c'n pick her up an' carry her."

"So could I," Castle said rather indignantly.

O'Leary assessed him speculatively. "Really? You work out a bit more than you let on, then." He grinned evilly. "You know, put on a tight t-shirt an' some well-fittin' shorts an' I know a couple of clubs with guys as would really like to meet you..."

Castle spluttered.

"Gotcha. Wouldn't be much point, now, would there? You're interested in Beckett. More'n interested, if what I heard was right." There was an indeterminate mutter, at which O'Leary grinned wider. "Guess I heard it right."

Food arrived on the table in stages, between which Castle cast glances at the shadowy bulk of his newest friend, who appeared to be squatting by Beckett. She didn't appear to be receptive to anything he was saying.

"I'm not hungry," she snapped. "Leave me alone."

"You can have nothing to eat if you want, but you gotta have a drink. You'll get sunstroke."

"I won't."

"Don't be dumb. If you won't eat with us, take a drink and go sulk in your bedroom. Likely you'll spoil my lunch anyways, scowlin' like that."

"Just go _away_ , O'Leary. I don't want company." Castle could hear the stress fracturing her voice.

"I saw that. You're gettin' it like it or not."

As he watched, O'Leary plucked her up from her spot. It didn't go down well.

"What the _hell_? Put me down."

"Naw. You're all cross because you're hungry an' you need a drink."

"I _need_ to be left alone." More fracturing. Castle would have bet on Beckett damming up tears, but he wasn't stupid enough to say that or to get involved.

"Get a drink, an' we'll leave you to your bad temper."

"Fine."

She stalked over to the table, very obviously ramming down some severely angry commentary, and scowled even more blackly. "Could I get a soda from the fridge, please?" she asked, perfectly civil and polite. Her eyes glistened, and her mouth was tightly pinched.

"Sure. You know where it is."

Castle felt very strongly that he was not going to interfere with O'Leary or Beckett. He enjoyed living, and was keen to keep enjoying it for many years to come.

Beckett took a soda, totally controlled, and turned to go back outside. In the way was her pet mountain, who appeared to have a plan in mind. On any other person, that would have been suicidal. On O'Leary, it might merely involve a few insect-bites and – if Beckett were to draw the gun she didn't have – a wasp-sting.

"Excuse me," Beckett bit out. O'Leary, astonishingly, didn't move. Normally _mountains_ moved when Beckett used that particular command tone. Maybe O'Leary was first cousin to a tectonic plate?

"Naw. You're upset an' you're hungry, an' that's not a good combination. Sit down an' have some lunch. We left a cinnamon bun for you."

"I'm not hungry."

"You used to tell me that every time you were upset, back in the day. I don't believe you any more than I did then."

"It was true than and it's true now."

Castle watched with admiration as O'Leary applied a craftsman's skill to Beckett's lack of communication, completely ignoring everything he'd told Castle about leaving her to talk when she was ready. Every time she tried to close down, he tapped another wedge into the conversation to re-open it, gradually steering it to what he wanted to know. Clearly pretend-hayseed-dumb O'Leary was a very bright cop indeed. Castle continued to stay discreetly out of the way. Lunch would keep.

"An' you must be sore from sleepin' out. What was that all about? Din't have you posted as an astronomer. You never even read your horoscope."

"That's _astrology_. And it's nonsense."

"So why were you sleepin' out?"

"The stars were pretty."

"Don't try that, Beckett," O'Leary said sternly. "C'mon. We're pals. We been pals forever. You ain't right an' it's not just that you got shot an' then broke your arm. I know your dad's back drinkin' an' I know you got guilted by those dumbasses up in Roscoe." Beckett flung a look of furious betrayal at Castle. "Seems to me, though, you're back blamin' yourself for your dad. That was dumb last time and it's dumb now."

O'Leary's tone was measured, but his words clearly stung.

"How would you know?" Beckett bit back. "He looked after me for weeks and I'm just leaving him to kill himself with whiskey. How's that for gratefulness, huh? Use him up and destroy him." She shoved at O'Leary's immoveable bulk. "Just like with everyone else. Use them up and destroy them because I can't give anything back." She shoved again, twisted, emitted a piercing cry of pain at which a shocked O'Leary dropped his arms, and fled, pushing past Castle into the house.

"Waal. _That_ was unexpected," O'Leary rumbled.

"I don't think that worked so well," Castle grated. "Where's that got us all?"

"Leastways now you know what the problem is," the other man pointed out. "Same dumb idea as she always did have. Thinks that askin' for help is askin' too much. Thinks she never gives out any help."

Twin disgusted noises hit the air. Castle got in first.

"And all that empathy with the victims' families _isn't_ giving out help?"

O'Leary opened his mouth, looked oddly uncomfortable and embarrassed, and closed it. Castle, intrigued and also inclined to do a little reversal of the interrogation score, regarded him keenly. "What? Are you about to say she _doesn't_ help them?"

"No. But... other stuff, you know? There's a lot more that I don't guess you know, an' it's not...um..."

"Promise I won't tell her."

"Not worried 'bout that."

"Yeah?"

"Um... you gotta not write about it, okay? I read those Nikki Heat books, an' you're liftin' cases an' personalities pretty much straight from reality. You ain't taken anything, um, private or sensitive, but..."

"I wouldn't do that. Nobody'd ever talk to me again. Private is private. I'm not a page six gossip hound."

"Better not be," O'Leary said menacingly, "because you won't like the outcome if you spill."

"Trust me or not," Castle growled back at him. "You don't know me and I don't know you."

"Naw. But I know Beckett and I trust her judgement, an' she trusts you. So unless you screw up, I'll trust you too."

"Okay. I won't write about it." It was too serious, from O'Leary's face, to try the _Scout's Honour_ line.

"Waal..." O'Leary didn't seem to be in any hurry to start. Instead, he sat down at the table, and started to assemble a platter-ful of lunch, in which pursuit Castle readily joined him, hoping that the comfortable atmosphere would encourage speech.

"I said we met on a Vice op. Waal, back in the day thin's weren't as...um...tolerant as they mostly are now" –

"Mostly?"

"Now, I got seniority. An' after we have a little chat, as you might say, they see the error of their ways."

"I see," Castle said to O'Leary's vicious grin.

"Anyways, Beckett pegged me for gay straight off the bat – seems the other cops had copped" – he sniggered – "a feel, an' I din't. Not professional, I gotta say, but they got theirs a while later when we took 'em sparrin'. Man," he said reminiscently, "that was a fun session. Beckett took her best game to the park, an' she worked out with me. An' when she was done, I had a go, just for kicks. An' then we told 'em why. They weren't too happy, an' they were even unhappier when we pointed out that they could both be up on report for harassment of a fellow officer. They crawled out of there like whipped puppies."

"Serve them right."

"That's what we said, y'know. But back in the day, thin's din't always go like regulations would want it, an' a few people got a bit curious that I wasn't pickin' up an' datin' girls. So Beckett offered. I din't want to come out the closet then. Wouldn't've helped anythin'. So she made like we were datin'. Stopped all the talk cold. Meant she din't get to look for anyone, but I guess she din't get hit on either, so it worked out 'bout even."

That didn't sound too onerous to Castle, and it surely didn't sound like the help O'Leary had implied.

"But then I met Pete, an' thin's got a lot more complicated pretty quick. Beckett gave us cover, but... she got a lot of shit about the three of us always bein' together. People made a lot of suggestions 'bout what we were doin' together, an' they weren't exactly clean, or kind." The mountain winced. "An' she just took it. Batted it back like she'd done it all an' enjoyed it." He blushed at the memory. "Guess she'd seen it all in Vice, but all the time I knew her before you showed up I only saw but one boyfriend, an' he was more straitlaced than my sneakers. She took a lot of shit an' grief for us, an' still listened every time I wanted to talk. Din't matter what time it was, she was there." He met Castle's eyes. "We'd like to get married, now it's gonna be legal. That's comin' in tomorrow, you know? We c'n start to plan."

He stopped, as if being sappy wasn't for Bigfeet.

"Anyways. She was there. Every time, no matter what. Same as she was there every time for her dad till she worked out she couldn't fix him. Covered for us till it din't matter any more, din't matter what it cost her. 'Part from Pete, she's the best friend I got."

He munched down on his sandwich, which disappeared in short order and was replaced by another. A soda vanished, and a second one.

"But that wasn't all. Most of this I heard on the QT. Scuttlebutt over the grapevine. I got a lot of pals, though they ain't as close pals as Beckett 'n' me, an' I hear a lot of stuff. You gotta know that Beckett's got a bit of a reputation as a ball-breaker."

"A _bit_?"

His face lit with reminiscence again. "Guess that came from the two we had the sparrin' session with, but I did hear as some lowlife called her a bitch in Interrogation, an' all she did was look him up an' down an' say, 'That's _Detective_ Bitch to you.'."

Castle snickered.

"Anyways, she got a reputation, like I say. Funny thin' is, though, you'd think no-one would go near her. An' most of them, they din't. Scared off."

"Not surprising. Beckett's hardly soft and fluffy."

Booming belly laughter shook the table. "Naw. But, see, iffen someone was an asshole they got chopped off at the knees – on a good day. But iffen someone was her folk, it was a bit different. When they were dumb, they still got reamed out for it, an' man, she never pulled her punches. Girl c'n make a grown man cry."

"Still doesn't pull them," Castle said, thinking of the day and night before an aircraft hangar.

"But if shit went down, she was standin' in front of them takin' it. An' when home shit went down, she was there listenin'. That baby-faced Irish cop with the bad taste in ties an' sweater-vests, Ryan? You know he used to be in Narcotics?"

"No," Castle replied, astounded.

"Undercover. I heard" – there was a remarkable lack of specification as to _how_ he'd heard – "as he was havin' a few problems with the aftermath. I _heard_ – an' not from either of them – as she made sure he got through it, an' I heard she covered over a few times when the memories got in the way."

"Oh."

"An' then there's that Esposito-macho-man. Most times, I heard, he used t' be able to start a fight in an empty room, iffen he thought the table was lookin' at him wrong. He got into a bit of trouble when he first hit the Twelfth: a case went down badly an' a kid got caught in the crossfire. Beckett went into bat for him when some dumbass got in his face about it an' it looked like a fight was gonna start: stood in front of him an' faced Espo down till he slunk off an' then rained down hell on the dumbass. Heard it wasn't the last time, till he calmed down a bit. You know his previous partner was supposed to've gone rogue?"

"Yeah. Turned out he was working a long term undercover op."

"Well, he din't know that then, an' it wrecked him for a while, an' scuttlebutt has it that if it hadn't been for Beckett hauling his ass into line he'd'a been takin' a long, long break."

"I never knew any of that," Castle said wonderingly.

"She don't talk about it. Likes hidin' behind the rep. I guess she don't want to be seen as a soft touch, or shoved into doin' girly stuff. So she does the ball-breakin' bitch bit, an' sure it's real right down to the core, but it ain't the whole story." He paused. "But there ain't anyone standin' takin' the shit for her, 'cause she don't let 'em. Don't tell 'em. 'Cept mebbe you."

Silence fell, under the Hamptons sunshine.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

 _Lots of you are frustrated with Kate. Just to say, it's only been 4 days in story-time since she walked out on her dad._


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

The volume of food on the table fell, but at least as many thoughts as calories were chewed.

O'Leary, having provided a huge amount of information, none of which changed Castle's view that Beckett had her head firmly wedged in her ass, had relapsed into consuming the equivalent of most small families' daily food intake; and Castle was considering Beckett's melt-down and what to do. He had a horrible feeling, based very firmly on her own comments that if things couldn't be fixed she simply ran away, that she was considering leaving.

"I wouldn't let her go back to Manhattan, iffen I was you."

"I can't stop her."

"Sure you can. Just kiss her."

"Uh?"

"Kiss her, dumbo."

"She'll shoot me."

"No gun. She'd've shot me."

"I don't go kissing women who don't want kissed."

"You tryin' to tell me Beckett don't wanna kiss you?"

Castle had an abrupt, crystal-clear flashback of the previous day's incident in the pool. "No-o," he said slowly. "But it's not a good idea."

O'Leary shrugged. "Up to you."

"I'm going to leave her for now, as you suggested. Maybe I'll try a bit later. Have you got any more of those stories from Central Park?"

"Waallll, there was the dog-walker with a Newfoundland who ended up like the Pied Piper with all the little kids following him..."

A short time passed in more stories of dubious lowlifes and amusing happenings, with neither man mentioning the Beckett elephant back in the house. However, as their feet took them back to the table outside the kitchen, they exchanged glances and mutually, wordlessly, decided that Beckett should be evicted from her misery-cave.

"I did a first-aid course once," O'Leary said, "so I'll patch you up after."

"Thanks," Castle answered sarcastically. "I didn't know first-aid cured death."

"Aw, it won't be that bad. Yell for help if you think she's gonna murder you."

He harrumphed, and left O'Leary picking at the remains of lunch.

When he tapped on the door to perdition and sudden, painful death, he didn't expect an invitation to enter and didn't get one. In fact, he didn't get any response at all. Naturally, he went in anyway. Beckett was asleep on top of the covers, in the ratty sleep tee and clutching his robe, face buried in it. That was astounding. It was also incredibly cute. Castle whipped out his phone, conveniently in his pocket, and took a photo. Only then did he sit down on the bed, next to her.

He patted her shoulder. She didn't wake, but reached up, asleep, and captured his hand, tugging it to her heart. That... wasn't a good idea, he swiftly found. It was only natural to settle his hand comfortably under hers, and then it was only natural to slip his other hand around her face, and then it was only natural to kiss her softly.

She purred a little in her sleep, and turned into him. He couldn't help it: he kissed her again, still softly. Her eyelids fluttered, and shut again.

"Beckett? Kate, time to wake up now."

There was a sleepy grumble, which was also adorable. "Don' wanna," she slurred. "Tired."

"C'mon. Coffee?"

"Coffee?"

"Yeah. Coffee, and there's a cinnamon bun waiting."

"'Kay."

"It'll be outside," Castle said quietly, and left before consciousness could dawn on her and interfere.

He bounced into the kitchen, quite delighted by her unconscious actions and even more delighted that there hadn't been any evidence of packing, and put on the coffee machine.

"Want another, O'Leary?" he called to the mountain, who was idly nibbling on a piece of pie.

"Iffen you're makin' it, sure."

Several minutes later Beckett sidled into the kitchen and out to the table, exuding a strange mixture of defiance, embarrassment, and unhappiness. Castle pushed coffee into her hand and put the final cinnamon bun, which had still eluded O'Leary's gaping maw, in front of her. There was a long, uncomfortable lack of speech. The coffee level dropped. The cinnamon bun remained untouched, as did the rest of the food on the table. It was beyond awkward.

"I'm just gonna go for a little stroll," O'Leary rumbled. "Gotta digest my lunch." That left Castle looking at Beckett, who was staring at the table, her whole body tense, white knuckles around the mug.

Castle declined words in favour of swapping sides of the table to sit next to Beckett and, tentatively, put an arm around her. Abruptly, she turned into him and buried her face in his shoulder. From afar, O'Leary glanced at them, gave Castle a thumbs-up, and wandered in the other direction. He simply held her, no petting, stroking or murmuring, and waited for her tension to ease. Or break, of course. Beckett had a breaking strain: everyone did. He'd just never found it before.

Death, though, was the ultimate breaking strain.

She was still, motionless against his chest, but in the quiet of his Hamptons home he thought he could hear a sub-vocalised murmur, born in misery. He listened very closely. It sounded like _use you up and throw you away_. He didn't reveal that he'd heard it. _Just like I did before..._ Before what?

Oh. When she'd sent him away when he'd tried to make her stop – and failed, before Montgomery was shot. Thrown him away when he'd come to her hospital room, before she'd ditched Josh. Used him up...

So she thought.

He let go of her, and she drew away, still stiff and closed in.

"Talk to me," he said.

"What's the point? We both know how this ends. You try and give me whatever you think I need because that's what you _always_ do and I take it, use it up, and push you away again. It doesn't ever change. _I_ don't ever change. I haven't been able to love anyone like they deserve since my mother was murdered because all that happens is they're taken away. So why bother? I'll only fuck it up."

She stood, painfully, tears pooling but not falling, and stumbled away, around the corner to the pool area.

Castle watched her departure, and didn't move. Assurance, or reassurance, or reminder, wasn't going to help him here. Not yet. Later, maybe. It didn't stop him wishing it would.

Small tremors in the earth indicated the return of O'Leary, which was rather like watching continental drift in time-lapse action.

"Where's Beckett?" the bass vibrated.

"She..."

"Was she cryin'?"

"No."

"Aw, _shit_."

O'Leary definitely had Beckett's measure. That matched very nicely with Castle's feelings on the matter. If she'd burst into tears, wept into his shirt, simply _let her feelings out_ – he would have been a lot, well, not happier, but certainly relieved.

"Where'd she go?"

"Round that corner. The pool's round there. Try not to throw her into it, she can't swim right now."

"I ain't gonna do that. We're both goin' round there."

"I don't think she wants to see anyone."

"So?" said O'Leary, unanswerably. "What's she gonna do to me?"

"I'm more worried what she'll do to me," Castle muttered.

"Nuthin'. You're goin' to cuddle her when she starts to cry, an' I'm goin' to make a sharp exit before she c'n think 'bout shootin' me. She don't have her gun, does she?"

"No."

"Good. Don't give her one, okay?"

"Wasn't planning on it. She might try to shoot me."

O'Leary's belly laugh wobbled the chairs. "C'mon, Castle. Let's go sort her out."

Castle had a nasty feeling that he knew what O'Leary was planning – and he really, really didn't like it. That was, of course, because he didn't think he could stand another round of Beckett crying, and he was pretty certain O'Leary was planning to force her feelings to the fore. Surely there was a better way? – but unfortunately, he really couldn't think of it.

"This is _not_ a good plan," he muttered again.

"You got a better one?"

"No."

"Waalll then. Might not be good, but it's the only one we got."

They reluctantly trudged around the corner. O'Leary whistled softly. "Nice," was all he said, however, but then – "I thought you said she came this way."

"She did."

"So where is she?"

It was a fair point. There was no Beckett anywhere in evidence. Castle shrugged. "I don't know," he began, and then stopped. "Did you hear something?"

O'Leary stood very still, and listened carefully to the small noises of breeze and breaking waves on the beach below. After a moment, he began to turn – and stopped.

"Yeah. Somethin'." He took a few giant strides past the pool, stopped and listened again, and beckoned Castle on. "I reckon we've found your missing girl," he attempted to whisper. "An' it sounds like she _is_ cryin'."

Castle didn't know how O'Leary had reached that conclusion. All he could hear was an occasional muffled breath.

"I've known her a lot longer'n you," came the non-whisper. "Seen this before." Castle blinked. "'Bout twice in eight, nine years?"

"Mhm?" Castle asked, very much more softly than O'Leary's gale-force attempt at quiet speech.

"Once was her Dad. Once that dumbass Fed. He was never right for her."

"That's what I thought," Castle agreed.

O'Leary quirked his eyebrows. "You met him?"

"Yeah. Year or so back. He tried to get back with her."

"Mm. Don't look like it worked."

"Nope," Castle said smugly.

O'Leary merely grinned. "Anyways, I c'n hear her, but I still can't see her."

"Follow me. There's a path down to the beach."

They got to the top of the path and halted there, scanning the sand below. There, perched on a largish rock, was the hunched figure of Beckett.

"How come we heard her from all that way down?"

"Weird acoustics down on the beach." Castle put an arm in front of O'Leary, who was about to start downward. "Wait a minute."

"Huh? Thought we were doing this?"

"Not yet."

"Huh?"

Castle was staring at Beckett's still, strained form. "She's pulling herself back together. That's not a good sign."

"Naw. So get out of the way, an' let me do my work."

O'Leary's massive frame brushed past Castle as if he was a blade of grass and started down the path. Perforce, Castle followed.

He caught up just about soon enough to hear the start of the conversation, or, more accurately, argument.

"I need to go back home," Beckett was saying. "Will you give me a ride to the station?" She sounded defeated and broken, and she couldn't look O'Leary in the face.

"No. An' I'm not givin' you a ride to Manhattan either, so don't ask."

"Why not? I can't stay here."

"Why not?" O'Leary batted straight back. "You're comfy an' it's a nice place an' you got Castle there to look after you. You don't wanna go back to the city."

"I have to go back," she bit.

"Nah." O'Leary squared his barn-door shoulders. "You're runnin' away." His tone changed. "Never took you for a coward, Beckett, but you're changin' my mind right now."

"So I'm a coward," she said flatly, which neither man, from O'Leary's shocked startlement, had expected. "Fine. Goes along with everything else. I'll call a cab, if you won't take me." Her face was cold, eyes dead. "Guess I used you up too."

She slid off the rock and started to walk back to the path.

"You can't use me up," Castle said, standing squarely in her way. When she tried to move around him, he caught her. "People are infinite. I don't run out, just because you think so." He dropped his hands from her.

O'Leary took a pace and came up beside Castle, twisting to face Beckett.

"You don't get to tell me iffen I'm done with you or not. You might have your head up your ass, but that don't stop me bein' your oldest pal and I ain't lettin' you talk this crap."

"I don't need you picking me up."

"You don't get to tell me I can't," O'Leary said sternly. "Now you stay right there an' listen to me rather'n blockin' yourself out."

"I don't need to hear it. Let me past."

"No," Castle weighed in. "We won't." He caught a sidelong look of approval. "Running isn't going to work. You're not running away because of us, no matter what you tell yourself" – he managed not to add _in your dumb head_ – "you're trying to run away from yourself and wherever you run, you can't leave yourself behind."

She stared at both of them, shocked still by the co-ordinated effort. "I..." She swallowed, and tried to turn away. Castle could see welling up in her eyes. "I want to go home," she gulped.

"You are home." Castle took one step and gathered her in, murmuring into her hair. "You are home."

She fell apart, sobbing hopelessly into his shoulder. O'Leary tactfully retreated up the path back to the house.

"There, there," he cosseted. "It's okay."

"It's not okay. It's never okay. I wanted to do it myself and be strong enough and I can't be. I don't have anything to give anyone." She was still sobbing. "I thought it was better but I can't do anything right so why even bother trying. I'm tired of trying and being wrong." She gulped again, and Castle held her closer, attempting to soothe her. " I couldn't sleep so I went out so I didn't disturb you and that was wrong, and I wanted to fix myself and that was wrong, and... everything I touch goes wrong," she finished, almost inaudibly.

"You're here. That's _not_ wrong."

"It _is_ wrong. Every time it starts to go right I fuck it up again. Look at me. Can't sleep, can't eat, can't use my arms, can't give anything" –

"Bullshit. Complete bullshit. You give the victims' families everything" –

"Yeah? And what good is that when I can't give anything to the people I love" – she crashed to a halt and wrenched herself away. She'd got ten steps before Castle, much faster than she while she was still recovering, caught up.

"You don't get to say that and run away from me," he gritted out. "You don't get to blurt out how you feel and _leave me_." He brought her back into him. "You stay right here with me and _just fucking lean on someone else_." He breathed out, in again. "You don't have to do it all yourself."

She began to sob again. Out of the mess emerged, "Who else _can_?"

Castle was brought up short. Who else, indeed? Only Beckett could fix Beckett – oh. But that didn't mean she didn't need support or comfort – or love – along the way. He stood there, holding her, and gradually another realisation appeared: that no-one else had been there for her to lean on. Her mother was dead, her father had been, and was again, a drunk. She clearly hadn't been close enough to anyone else to let them in – even Lanie, even this O'Leary giant who'd shown up today.

"No-one else can fix you," he said heavily, honestly. She shrank into herself. "But that doesn't mean you can't let them help. Hold you up when it's all too much. It's not using, or failing, or weak. It's being human, Kate. It's just being human." He paused. "I know this cop," he said, forcing his tone to lightness. "Thinks she can leap tall buildings in a single bound. She's pretty much bulletproof, since she got shot in the heart and she's still alive. But she's still human." He took a deep, deep breath. "And I still love her."

"How can you?" she whispered sadly.

"Because she just said she loved me," Castle murmured, "so how could I not?" He stopped. "You're not supposed to cry like that. Stop crying, Kate. Anyone would think you didn't want me to love you. Which is really silly, you know." He forced a smirk, and a teasing note. "Everyone wants me to love them. Including you."

Her tear-stained face emerged from his shirt with an effort at an eyeroll.

"And now you've come out. That's better," he soothed, and kissed her very gently. She only leaned against him, white and exhausted. "Let's go back to the house. You didn't even eat your cinnamon bun."

"O'Leary'll have eaten it by now," she replied, trying for some normality, and utterly failing. "I'm not hungry."

Unlike O'Leary, Castle didn't push the point. He'd gained considerable ground in the last half hour, and pushing would lose it. "Okay," he agreed. "How about coffee, or a soda?"

"Coffee, please."

They walked up the path with Castle's arm still around Beckett. He wasn't entirely sure that she wouldn't simply fall apart again, and the last thing any of them needed was yet another injury. His worry wasn't mitigated when he noticed that she was, ever so slightly, trembling. _Don't push_ , he reminded himself, and heard again O'Leary's words: _she'll come to you, iffen you let her be_.

O'Leary was, they found, sitting by the pool with a soda.

"Found it in the fridge," he said, a touch apologetically.

"That's okay." Castle put Beckett on the couch next to her enormous pal. "I'll get one myself. Beckett wants coffee. Want another?"

"Naw. I'm good, thanks."

Beckett stared emptily after Castle's retreating back. O'Leary raised a huge paw, and patted her on the shoulder in a comradely fashion.

"You'll be okay, butterfly. He'll treat you right." There was a monstrous grin. "An' if he don't, I'll have a word."

"Not required," but it didn't come with any bite.

"Let him look after you for a while. 'S no shame. Pete looks after me when things ain't so great."

"I know."

O'Leary picked her up from her seat, carefully, and hugged her briefly. "Ev'ryone knows you c'n do it yourself. Mebbe it's 'cause you always had to. But why take all the hassle on your own shoulders when you don't need to? You got friends. An' looks to me like your boy's happy to be more."

"Yeah," Beckett breathed. O'Leary smiled. "He just keeps coming back."

"So? If you didn't want him to, you'd shoot him. If you'd wanted him to be gone, he'd've been gone long ago. Let him in, butterfly. You deserve it."

O'Leary had entirely dropped his hayseed persona, which always meant it was more important than normal.

"I like him," he added. "He fits you. An' he's got guts enough to face you down if he has to." He smiled. "Don't screw it up for no good reason." Smile turned to grin. "Now go kiss the man. Likely he's hidin' round the corner eavesdroppin'."

Castle emerged, ears pink. O'Leary hoisted Beckett up, turned her round, and very gently shoved her in Castle's approaching direction. She hesitated, half-spun back, turned again and took the half-step that was all that was required to end up in his arms, stretched up, and planted a kiss on his lips.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

"Might be time for me to go," O'Leary rumbled after a moment. "Reckon you two got some" – he paused mischievously – "talkin' to do."

Castle regarded him over Beckett's dark head, presently tucked into his shoulder. "You don't want some dinner?"

"I don't wanna be a third wheel, an' you two got some talkin' to do, like I just said. It's a coupla hours home, an' I don't wanna be late. Pete cooks nice stuff." He lumbered to his enormous feet. "Now, you kids play nice. I don't wanna come back an' have to knock your lips together."

Both of them blushed. O'Leary regarded their scarlet-tinged faces with approval.

"I'll see you out," Castle said, and all three left the poolside.

"Bye," Beckett said, detached herself from Castle, and bumped fists with O'Leary.

"An' eat somethin', Beckett!"

"Yes, Mommy," she muttered. Castle escorted O'Leary away, and Beckett idly examined the table, which was devoid of any food except a rather sun-dried cinnamon bun. She ate it anyway, chasing each bite with a gulp of coffee.

Castle returned, still slightly pink about the ears, and took in the scene before him.

"Don't you want something a little less baked?" he asked, looking at the crumbs.

Beckett considered. Her gut was still deeply unhappy, but that might have been because it was also empty, though she didn't really think so. Her decision was made for her when she noticed her hand shaking slightly around the coffee cup.

"I guess," she said quietly. Castle disappeared and shortly returned with bread, salad, and the remains of the pie.

"Have something," he cajoled.

She leaned her elbows on the table, and stared at the surface, picking at the piece of bread she'd taken but not actually putting anything in her mouth.

"What do I do?" she said miserably. "Dad's going to drink himself to disaster and I'm just letting him drown." She picked the bread apart some more. "I couldn't save him last time and I can't save him this time," she added.

"Do you want to go to an ACOA? There's one not too far from here," Castle suggested.

"I know what they'll say. Didn't cause, can't control, can't cure. Why d'you think I" – there was a harsh breath – "left him to it? I know that. Just like I know he's most likely already drunk, at five p.m. The only real question is whether he's drunk at home or drunk in a bar."

Castle slid round and sneaked an arm around her shoulders. "I guess you can't help worrying about him," he said, "but...Beckett...um... you don't need to deal with it all by yourself. I get that you want to stand on your own feet, but you can always talk to me. I wouldn't do anything unless you asked me to," he added. "I'm not going to call your dad, or go and collect him and drop him off at a rehab, or get involved. He's your dad and it's up to you how you deal with him – but... just...you can talk to me, okay?"

"I don't like talking about it," she mumbled.

"I'm not saying you have to. I'm not even asking you to talk now. All I'm saying is that when it's all getting too much, instead of tossing and turning and sleeping outside, you can talk to me. You know I don't keep regular hours. Being woken doesn't bother me – my mother does it all the time though mostly it's not deliberate."

"Uh?" Beckett said, more alive than at any time that day. She stopped picking at the bread, now destroyed, and took a slice of cold meat pie, neatly cutting it into bite-size chunks.

"You know Mother. She's not quiet. Even when she comes in at three in the morning she's not quiet."

"Don't you sleep through it?" Three small pieces of pie were gone.

"Not since Alexis," Castle said simply. "You're always listening, even when you're asleep."

Beckett cut another slice of pie into pieces, and disposed of them too. Castle didn't move from next to her, and didn't comment. She nibbled at some salad, and then pushed her plate away.

"I'll put it away."

"I'll help," Beckett said firmly. It might also help them return to a rather better place than they'd been in for all of that morning.

"Okay."

Castle's casual acceptance, as he hopped off his chair and started collecting up plates, was reassuring. Beckett, feeling better for her pieces of pie, followed, a little cautiously, balancing the weight on her left arm. The doctor had been very definite about not putting strain on the healing arm.

The remains of lunch (or possibly afternoon snack) tidied away, and the early evening sun painting the ground, Beckett was still restless and fretful.

"Come on," Castle said. "Let's go swimming. You might not be able to do much but it's better than wearing a hole in my beautiful wooden floors."

"We're outside."

"My paving. Or carefully maintained turf. It wouldn't like holes."

"You care more about your paving than my feet?"

"No, I care a _lot_ more about seeing you in that tiny green bikini, though." He gazed soulfully at her. "C'mon, let's go swimming."

Oh, why not? It had to be better than wearing holes in the soles of her feet.

"And after that I'll put the grill on and we can have barbecued burgers just like Remy's."

She quirked a very sceptical eyebrow.

"Okay, maybe not quite like Remy's. But still, grilled burgers. I've got plenty of toppings."

"Sounds great." It did. Simple, easy food was just what she needed. She had to eat: she was still far too thin for her own liking and she needed something to fuel the physio exercises. Oh. She hadn't done them today. "I can't come swimming. Yet," she added at Castle's disappointed look. "I haven't done my physio. I've got to do that first."

"Go do it, then," he said easily, "and I'll play fair by doing some swimming for exercise while you do." He paused. "But before you do..." He put his hands on her waist and tugged gently. "Hug," he explained unnecessarily. "Hugs are good."

Hugs were good. Much better than physio, but unfortunately physio had to be done, which meant that hugs had to be vacated. Beckett released herself, slowly.

"I won't be too long," she said.

"Good."

Castle disappeared in the direction of his bedroom, and Beckett went to hers, changing into a neat black bikini which flattered her just as much as the green one, covering it with a t-shirt and soft shorts, and then making her way to a deserted patch of Castle's immense grounds to conduct her exercises. They were a _lot_ easier without a cast on one arm. Still not easy, but better. Maybe some very gentle swimming – breast stroke only – would be possible? That would be much nicer than nothing. And she'd have to concentrate, which would keep her mind away from her father. She concentrated very hard on her exercises, at that thought. It didn't stop a stray drip from trailing down her cheek, or the twisting of her abdomen. She concentrated harder.

* * *

Back in Roscoe, Jim had vacated the tank, fortunately without having been charged. He guessed that meant that he hadn't done anything other than be incapable of leaving under his own steam. It...

No. It _was_ that bad. He couldn't remember anything. He could have done anything.

"Where do you live?" the cop asked him.

"Got a cabin a few miles out of town."

"How are you getting there? Got a ride?"

Jim stared at him. "My car" – he began, and then swallowed. "I'm not fit to drive," he said.

"Glad you worked that out," the cop said. It wasn't a compliment. "If I was you, I'd get a motel room and not touch your car till tomorrow." He stared bleakly at Jim. "If we catch you in your car, we'll breathalyse you, and if you fail you'll be charged."

Jim suddenly realised that to this burly, rural cop he was – just another drunk. Just a puking, puling mess that the cop couldn't care less about. All his professional reputation, his Manhattan background, his comfortable life – to this cop, they didn't exist. He was just another drunk.

"I'll do that. Thank you," he said, uselessly.

"Roscoe Motel is nearest. 'Bout a mile back towards town."

"Thank you."

Jim turned and trudged out the door. Each step roiled his already-unhappy, acid-burning stomach; thudded through his pounding hangover. Not one whit of the pain blotted any iota of his scalding shame and self-disgust. Seven years he'd been dry, but that had been destroyed in one horrible moment when he'd thought that Katie had been shot again; seen her crumpled and in agony at the bottom of the cabin steps... seen her _dead_. He couldn't bear her like that.

She'd left him. She'd said she couldn't bear him like this, and left. No attempt to save him, no _Dad, please stop_. Just the cold note, and his watch that he'd given her and she'd worn every day for the last seven years. She'd simply...gone.

Run to Rick Castle.

Run to _Rick Castle_ , who hadn't saved her and didn't protect her, rather than staying with him, her _dad_ , the one who'd taken care of her and helped her recover and been there for her. Rick Castle hadn't done any of that. Who did he think he was, telling Jim to go to rehab? He didn't need rehab. He knew what to do. He could fix himself.

Jim tramped painfully along the road to the motel, allowing the hammers in his head and his stomach-ache to drown out the voice saying _Rick Castle was there in the ambulance, and the hospital, and you know he was as devastated as you. Rick Castle is totally in love with Katie and you know that Katie is in love with him_.

The motel was quiet, small, and cheap. Jim checked in for one night, and was shown to a neat, clean single room. There was no mini-bar. A small devilish voice said _you could go buy some_. He pushed it away. He'd show Katie he could do it and she didn't need to go running to Rick Castle. That whippersnapper had _no right_ to interfere.

He drank several glasses of water, and fell asleep, waking only to drink more water and undress to sleep properly. All the time his shame warred with his anger at Rick Castle, and, subconsciously, with Katie for abandoning him without a word, all over again.

* * *

"You done?" Castle said happily. "Come on in, the water's lovely."

Beckett plodded to the sun lounger and carefully took off her t-shirt, still not able to raise her arms fully, though they had more flexibility than on the previous day. Her shorts followed. She could feel Castle's eyes on her, and knew without even looking that they would be warm and appreciative. She turned around, still unhappy about the scars, but determined that they would _not_ stop her wearing what she wanted to wear or doing what she wanted to do.

Right then, what she wanted to do was see the heat in Castle's face as she came towards the pool, to remind herself that he, at least, loved her. Her step faltered on the thought, though, and warmth turned almost instantly to worry: he half-moved towards her, then forcibly restrained himself and waited, saying nothing. As she reached the edge and sat down, he floated towards her, sleek wet hair pushed back untidily, back slightly tanned. He stood up, smiling. Water trickled over his shoulders and also-tanned chest. As he took in her black bikini, any worry dissolved in the heat she'd wanted to see.

She smiled back, deliberately seductive, and surveyed him as he took a step-stroke and arrived right in front of her, resting his hands either side of her. For once her head was above his. She had to work hard not to cover the red knot at the point of the V of her bikini. She wouldn't hide it.

Castle leaned forward and kissed just above the scar, exactly as he had done two days ago, then put big hands around her waist and lifted her off the edge and into the water, holding her close.

"There," he said. "Told you the water was lovely."

Beckett wasn't convinced he was only talking about the water. Tentatively, she tried to raise her arms so that she could balance against his shoulders, and found that if she didn't try to lift the whole arm but only fold up from her elbows, she could. Her feet floated off the bottom of the pool, and Castle loosened his clasp slightly.

"Can you swim?" he asked.

"Usually. Can I swim now? I don't know."

"Wanna try?"

Beckett shrugged. "May as well."

Castle let go of her and swam out of her way. Beckett pushed off the bottom with her toes, attempted the arm movements for breast stroke, got halfway, and stopped abruptly.

"Ow," she emitted.

Castle was there in a heartbeat. "What?" he questioned.

"Can't push my arms forward. It pulls on the scars," she added bitterly.

He hugged her gently. "Do the exercises help? I mean, isn't it better now than when you left Manhattan?"

"Yeah," she dragged out. "But I'm so sick of not being able to do anything properly."

"I know something you can do properly."

"What?"

"Kiss me," he said, and promptly forestalled her by kissing her instead. His arms wrapped round her, hers mysteriously fastened around his broad back, and his mouth played delicately over hers. She ran her tongue along the seam of his lips, seeking entrance, and he opened up and let her in to explore and tease as she pleased.

"See," he said happily. "You can kiss me properly. You can kiss me any time you like. In fact, you can kiss me all the time – ummffff."

She did. It was the only way to shut him up, and it was working brilliantly. It was also working brilliantly to push away all her other worries and fears, because all she could think about were Castle's firm arms around her, his wide chest against her, and his soft, sensual mouth on hers. She held on to him as best she could and let herself drown in his strength.

At last they parted their lips, but he still held her close, carefully not touching near the surgical scar, equally careful not to slip his hand down on to her rear. She leaned into him, unwilling to let go, for the first time accepting all the comfort which he was offering. _Let him look after you_ , O'Leary had rumbled. _'S no shame_. Suddenly, she understood what he'd meant. Castle wasn't going to store it up; use it later. He was just _there_. Her partner...

"You always know," she murmured. "Every time. But..." her face fell. "I get you wrong. I didn't want to see." He made a sharp sound. "No. Because only my mother mattered – I thought. So I kept you at arm's length because..."

She dropped her eyes, unable to meet his open, understanding gaze, and gulped. "Because I knew you'd be more important if I let you in," she spilt out, and tried to move.

"Don't," he breathed. "Don't run away. Let me in now. You told me you loved me, and you know I love you. Don't hide or shut yourself away. Just be here with me." She hid her face against him. "I've got you now. Next time, maybe it'll be you holding me up – just like you did after Damien. It's not one way."

His fingers stroked, barely moving but ever-present, soothing and caressing, while Beckett recovered herself, and finally, a little damply, met Castle's eyes. He only smiled softly.

"Thank you," she said, heartfelt.

"Any time." He shivered. "But it's a bit cold and I'm turning into a prune and since I need to help you out, let's both get out of the pool and have some dinner. I'm hungry." His stomach agreed, very audibly.

* * *

A short time later, both separately tidied up and dressed, they reconvened in the kitchen: Castle searching out burgers and accompaniments, Beckett preparing a salad and managing, still a touch cautiously, to slice buns open.

"That's everything. I'm going to go and start the barbecue. Will you bring out the salad and buns?" He was piling burgers, corn on the cobs, cheese, ketchup, mustard, onion rings, and mayonnaise on a tray, precariously balanced on his forearm.

"Sure," Beckett agreed, waiting for the crash. There wasn't one. Instead there was the happy noise of male-meets-barbecue. It must have been some Palaeolithic hindbrain reaction, though since Castle actually liked cooking and did a lot of it, he probably simply enjoyed the change of style. She followed the noises and her nose and, depositing salad and buns on the table with the heap of other foodstuffs, found Castle happily firing up the charcoal.

"It'll take a bit to get going," he noted. "How about a glass of wine while we wait?"

"Okay."

Castle wandered off and wandered back again with a bottle of Californian rose and two glasses dangling from his fingers. He opened the bottle efficiently and poured the wine. Beckett curled her fingers round the bowl of the glass, but didn't taste it, staring at the fluid and making it spin gently.

"Don't you want to try it?" Castle asked, after a few moments of spinning and silence.

"Oh... yeah." She took a sip. It was very nice. Of course it was. It came from Castle's collection of wine, after all. He'd never produced anything that wasn't very nice.

"You can grill burgers if you want to," he said after another few moments.

"Uh?"

"Beckett, wake up! I know you hardly slept last night, but you had a nap this afternoon, so you can't be that tired already. What's up?"

"Nothing," she said, absolutely truthfully. She had no thoughts in her head at all. In fact, she couldn't hold on to a single idea any more: completely exhausted by the emotional upheavals of the day and, indeed, the previous evening and night. All she really wanted was dinner and sleep... actually, there was one thought that had managed to cling on to her brain. Sleep next to her Castle. "I _am_ tired. Can we just get dinner and then I think I'll have to go to bed?"

"Sure," he agreed, tinged with just a hint of disappointment, which Beckett, yawning, entirely missed. "I'll start the burgers now."

Grilled burgers appeared, were decorated, and disappeared into their mouths. Beckett, finally discovering that she was hungry, disposed of three, to Castle's astonishment, topped it off with his best chocolate ice cream, and then sat, completely unable even to consider action, while he ate his ice cream more slowly. She did manage to stack up crockery, and even to take some through to the kitchen, but Castle refused to allow her to do anything further and backed it up with a gentle but decisive shove in the direction of her bedroom.

Beckett prepared herself for bedtime in her own room – and then stumbled sleepily across the passage into Castle's bedroom, tucked herself into his comfortingly Castle-scented bed, and was out almost faster than the light.

Castle, left to his own lonely devices, finished clearing up, pouted a little that Beckett had been so tired that she couldn't even face coffee – oh. No coffee? She must have been unbelievably exhausted. Normally nothing short of a nuclear bomb or the zombie apocalypse would have divided Beckett from her coffee.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

Castle made himself a coffee, sipped the last of his wine and then chased it with the coffee, and sat out under the stars. On balance, he didn't think it could have been a much better day. Okay, it hadn't started well, and the middle had been pretty awful except for O'Leary, with whom he intended to cultivate a much better acquaintance in due time, but set against that, and outweighing all of it by a factor of at least a googleplex – Beckett had said she loved him. Said it, and not been dying in the process; said it, and not instantly fled.

Even more importantly, she'd let him say it, and not only not fled, but leaned on him, and let him comfort her. For independent, walled in Beckett, that said more than words ever could, and all of it the story he'd long wanted to hear.

He contemplated the stars and the moonlight, perfectly content with the end of the day, but wishing he had his Beckett nestled beside him, cuddled in the crook of his arm with her head on his shoulder and in a beautifully kissable position, should they have wished to kiss. (And how likely was it that they wouldn't?, he asked himself rhetorically.) Since she wasn't there, he betook himself inside, and, not inspired to write, padded off to his bedroom. He bypassed his bed in favour of his bathroom, undertook his bedtime routine, and considered whether he should sneak into Beckett's room to make sure that she was okay. And maybe bring her back into his bed... if he could, if she would...

He moved past his bed towards the door, idly noting that there was a lump on the side.

Hang on. He'd made his bed this morning. There hadn't _been_ any lumps. He sidled up to the lump and found some very familiar dark curls spread across the pillows. His heart soared.

He slid into bed, turned over, and laid a hand gently on Beckett's waist, finding soft cotton and the tiny rise and fall of sleeping breaths. He was asleep in instants, buoyed up on happiness.

On waking, Castle found that he appeared to have been embraced by a cherry scented blanket. As his brain attained first gear, he realised that it was because Beckett had turned _into_ him in her sleep and was curled up with her head on his chest and her arm around him. She was breathing out tiny little whiffling sighs, and was obviously deep in slumber. Castle grinned very happily to himself, and enjoyed the sensation.

Unfortunately, he did need to get out of bed. Otherwise he'd be getting up in a very different way, and since he had been the one to stop them on the grounds that Beckett wasn't healed yet, that would be... dumb. He told himself sternly to be happy that she'd slept beside him all night by her own volition, and exited his bed, taking considerable care not to disturb her.

Some time after Castle had made – and eaten – pancakes with crispy bacon and was sitting enjoying the morning sun with his second cup of coffee, idly scrolling through the on line news and contemplating starting to write, Beckett yawned her way outside and flopped down beside him.

"Morning," he smiled. "Breakfast?"

"Please."

The single word appeared to be the limit of Beckett's available brain functions. Castle put coffee in front of her, which she fell upon like a dying man finding an oasis in the Sahara, and padded off to make more pancakes and bacon, which, when they arrived, she also fell upon. Castle nibbled at a stray pancake which had escaped the Beckett maw, and watched fondly – which he concealed, not wishing to spoil the moment by being mauled.

Her apparent starvation remedied, Beckett regarded Castle, a touch uncertainly, her hands knotted round her cup, which he dealt with by curving his hands around hers in a gesture that made it completely clear that he was there for her, and very happy with her being there too.

"What would you like to do today?" he asked. "We can stay here and enjoy the sun, we could go into town if you want to, or anything really."

"Can we just stay here?"

"Sure. Sun loungers by the pool?"

Beckett smiled at him, suddenly open, relaxed and beautiful. "Yeah. If you'll put sun cream on my back."

Castle swore he could feel his eyes light up. "If you'll do mine."

"Okay."

The day passed in peaceful togetherness: Beckett read (though Castle thought that she also slept, because the pages weren't obviously being turned), Castle wrote; they both made a good lunch and lamented O'Leary's depredations and consequent lack of cinnamon buns; and though Castle swam, Beckett merely floated around the pool whenever she felt too hot.

The one thing they didn't do, apart from when reapplying sun cream, was touch. In Castle's case, it was because he knew that if he started kissing Beckett, healed or not healed she'd respond, and he was still clinging desperately to his good-guy status. Being a good guy might be the right thing to do, but it sucked. In Beckett's case, it was because she knew that if she started kissing Castle at this stage then she wouldn't stop, and while she was still considerably below full fitness she'd rather not incite affairs on a sun lounger or indeed in the pool.

Even if there weren't touches, however, there was plenty of sneaky and overt ogling and leering. By dinner time, the atmosphere between them was crackling.

"Coffee by the pool?"

"Sounds great," Beckett agreed.

Coffee by the pool also meant nestling into Castle's excellently comfortable arm and chest, where Beckett fitted very neatly. She laid her head on his shoulder and looked up at the same stars as on earlier nights. Tonight, though, they didn't seem as remote or as uncaring, twinkling cheerfully down at them.

"It's beautiful out here," she said quietly. "So peaceful."

"I come up if I need space to think," Castle admitted. "Something about the sky helps to clear my head."

She snuggled closer. "I don't want to think. If I do, I'll think about Dad..."

"Don't do that," Castle said hurriedly. "Think about me. That's a much better idea. In fact, don't think about me."

"Huh?"

"Do this, instead," and he leaned down to kiss her, gently turning her in and gathering her into his lap. He lifted for an instant. "Much better than thinking." His mouth met hers again, and there was certainly not much thought involved in the following moments. He was teasing and gentle, no demands or forcefulness; his hands held her close, tucked in: soft kisses in the softly starlight night, followed by careful, sensitive exploration of each other: nothing too inflammatory, nothing that might suddenly explode: both all too aware that it would be far too easy for everything to blaze, with no care for injury or unhealed scars.

"We should stop," Castle gasped.

"Yeah..." but she didn't stop, nibbling naughtily on his neck and nipping his ear.

"I'm not usually one to recommend restraint..."

Beckett spluttered with laughter. "Restraint? You? Mr Nothing Succeeds Like Excess?"

"Family trait," Castle grinned back. "But we need to stop this, because..."

"Mmm?"

"Because you're going to hurt yourself. Or I'll hurt you, and I can't deal with either one."

She made a reluctant, disappointed, but ultimately accepting noise. "Yeah. I... one of us being upset is enough."

Castle cuddled her comfortingly. "You don't need to be upset."

"Not with you," she mumbled. "But I can't forget about Dad." She curled in, shrinking and tense. He didn't say anything, but petted. "I _hate_ not being able to do anything."

"Control-freak," Castle teased affectionately. Beckett growled, but didn't pull away. "I know," he soothed. "You want to fix it and you can't."

"He got _arrested_. He used to get picked up..." She broke off.

"Look, if it makes you happier you could check with the local cops that he was okay when they let him out."

"I don't want them calling me. You heard them. Guilt-tripping me about picking him up."

Castle paused for a second. "Um..."

"Yeah?"

"I could call. Um... no."

"What?"

"I... no."

"What, Castle?" Beckett clipped, very much her old self. "You're not normally shy about crazy theories."

"Um... I could pretend to be his son-in-law?"

"You _what_ now?" She stared at him. Even in the gloom he could see her eyes very wide. "Why would you call anyway? They'll only try to guilt-trip you too." She gulped. "I don't want you dragged into this mess. Why do you think I didn't tell you about it when I was upstate? I didn't want you involved because it just _never ends_. One damn thing after another, my family." She dragged in breath. "I just wanted _one freaking thing_ that didn't get spoilt by my issues."

"I won't do it if you don't want me to."

"I don't. I don't want you..." she searched for a word... "tainted. We're poison. Everything we touch gets fucked up. I didn't want you involved," she ended on a desperate note.

Castle remembered exceedingly and painfully clearly what had happened the last time Beckett had told him not to involve himself and he'd ignored her. That summer had been agonising.

"I won't call, then. Not unless you ask me to."

"I just want you to be somewhere I can... be safe. Be happy."

"I want to make you happy. And you make me happy. So let's not spoil it. I won't do anything about your dad unless you ask me to do something. No surprises."

She softened into him, and relaxed. "Thanks." It was followed by a jaw-breaking yawn. "I better get some sleep."

"Okay."

Castle rose from the couch and pulled Beckett up and into his arm. "I'll walk you home," he smiled. "Wouldn't want you to get lost, or go in the wrong door."

She managed a feeble smile. "Which is the wrong door?"

"The one that doesn't have me behind it," Castle said happily. "Feel free to take advantage of my enormous..." – he paused significantly, and she spluttered – "...bed. And anything else you might find in my bedroom or bed, of course."

"I will."

Castle's grin lit the kitchen as they entered.

"Your pillows are wonderful."

He choked. "Mean."

"You're the one who keeps stopping."

"You _know_ why. And for the record, Detective Beckett, I don't _want_ to stop."

Beckett considered a flip response, and decided against it – well, for the first sentence. "I know, and I guess I respect that," she said, and then smirked. "Your claim not to want to stop is definitely on the large side."

There was a chortle from beside her, and then she was neatly spun around and kissed, which finished what the flirting had begun: cheering her up.

"Now, off you go and get ready for bed," Castle suggested, "and then there's a nice large space in my bed into which you'll fit perfectly."

Beckett declined, not without some difficulty, the open doorway to a vast number of salacious comments about where _Castle_ might fit perfectly, and retreated from temptation to prepare for sleep. The thought of being curled into Castle's undemanding size and warm strength, surrounded by his presence, eased her immensely. She tucked herself in, and just like the previous night was asleep in seconds; before Castle slid into his preferred side and collected her sleeping hand. She didn't so much as twitch.

* * *

Jim woke, still feeling rough, taking several moments to understand where he was – and why. Then it all came back to him: the bored contempt in the face of the cop, looking at just another drunk; the gaping absence where knowledge of the night before the one just passed should have been; the throwaway line _she didn't want to know_ ; and there he was, lying in the bed of a cheap motel because he hadn't been fit to drive.

At least, he thought bitterly, he'd realised that before the cop had to tell him. Or didn't tell him, and improved his arrest stats.

He sat on the bed, staring out the window at the river and a few early-bird fishermen. He guessed he'd better check out, go home to the cabin... but then what?

Then, he thought acidly, he'd prove to Katie and Rick Castle that he could fix himself without them. They wouldn't help him: indeed, Katie had just run off and left him to it. He'd show them.

He checked out, and drove very sedately back to the cabin, obsessively checking his mirrors for the cops, which didn't soothe his resentment one bit.

When he entered, the cabin was chill and empty. Katie's note was still on the table: his watch was still on top of it. Resentment flared again. He walked over to the table, picked up the bottle, and poured the remains down the sink. Then he washed it out, and rinsed it again, so that no trace was left. He could do this. He could. He went out to the outbuilding and ensured that there was nothing in his fishing bag but fishing kit. No bottles, nothing that could be... difficult.

And then he came back inside, looked at Katie's note – and then tried not to weep.

Reading her few, clear words brought back every memory of the first time she had left him to it. She'd tried to help him then...and it hadn't worked. Tried, and tried, everything she could think of. None of it had worked...until she had simply walked out. Only then had he realised that he was losing everything. Only then had he checked himself into rehab, taken leave of absence – maybe only a few weeks ahead of it being suggested that he absent himself permanently, but they'd supported him: more, perhaps, than he'd merited – from his firm, turned his own fierce dedication and will on stepping back from the edge.

And he had _won_. Stepped back, stopped drinking, gone to AA every morning for years, and until this summer, when he'd been at the hospital, gone at least twice a week, re-established relations with Katie.

And then he had thrown it all away. Resentment began to fade, washed away in the not-quite falling tears.

 _But it wasn't your fault_ , a little voice whispered. _If Katie hadn't been shot, if she hadn't slipped on the steps_...

No. It was his fault. He chose to drink. He chose to blot out the awful sight of his daughter, white and still and corpse-like in an ICU bed. He chose to blot out the equally horrible sight of her crumpled on the ground and her scream as she fell, haunting his nightmares where he went to her to find her...gone.

He chose it.

Now, he had to choose whether to do without it.

 _But_ , whispered the poisonous voice, _Katie doesn't need you. Katie ran straight to Rick Castle._ Katie didn't tell Rick why she left, a voice of reason tried to say. The venomous voice came again: _Katie's got Rick Castle, and he wasn't... sympathetic. Just like he couldn't save Katie, he wouldn't help you_. Reason tried again. No-one could have stopped Katie. No-one ever could. And Jim had seen Rick Castle in the hospital, looking...

Looking like Jim had done right after Johanna had been killed. Jim knew that he cared for Katie. That had been why he, Jim, had gone to him in the first place. He cared... just as much as Jim had. Resentment sputtered and died.

 _But he tried to tell you what to do. That's disrespectful_.

He'd tried to guilt-trip the man.

 _A drink would solve the issue. You'd be yourself again. A little nip would clear it all up._

A little nip would kill him. Slowly, perhaps, but it would kill him. Look how quickly it had all fallen apart. Katie hadn't waited to watch him drown: she'd put him fair and square on the spot. Drink, and she had left. Sober up... and then she'd return.

 _Or not. She's got Rick Castle_.

And he'd had Johanna, but he'd still talked to his parents. Finding the love of your life didn't mean that you forsook all others – he'd never quite understood the wording for that part of the service. Of course, it meant you didn't go catting around, not that you ignored everyone you used to know.

Surely Rick would never stop Katie from seeing him. _He could do_. No. Katie had never put up with being told what to do. Sometimes, she'd accepted a rational argument. Taking orders... not so much.

Which memory led Jim straight to the next agonising truth. If he never saw Katie again, that would be because she didn't want to see him. Not because anyone else didn't want her to see him, or told her not to see him... Because she would choose for herself never to see him again. _I'd rather you went to rehab, because that way you'll see Beckett again_. Rick had said that.

Rick wouldn't stand in Katie's way. Rick wouldn't stand in Jim's way.

Only Jim stood in Jim's way, and only his alcoholism stood between himself and Katie.

He realised that he was weeping: slow, painful tears, dropping on the watch he'd given Katie. She'd worn it every single day... until he'd failed her.

All over again.

Slowly, heavily: the weight of his failure dragging at his heels, he drank some water, and sat out on the porch seat until the dark night closed in. Even then he sat for a while, until the mosquitoes drove him inside, and shame pursued him into sleep.

When he awoke, he knew what he had to do. He packed up his possessions, not forgetting both his watch and Katie's note, locked up the cabin, and drove back to Manhattan. Once there, he forced down his pride, and began.

"Ed, it's Jim. I need your help. Can I come see you? Now?"

And then he tapped out a text.

 _Katie, I'm trying again. I'm sorry. Don't give up on me. Dad._

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

Beckett woke up nestled into Castle's broad form, which was both immensely comfortable and immensely disturbing. Comfortable was obvious. It took her a little longer to decide why on earth she was disturbed, and eventually she concluded that it was because she'd never been a snuggly type. Usually she shied away from snuggling in bed as if it were torture, but there she was snuggled into Castle like he was her comfort teddy bear from when she was tiny. She was, in fact, clinging to him. Beckett didn't cling.

Beckett didn't lean on anyone. She never had. No matter how tough the situation, no matter how much she hurt, no matter what. Beckett relied on herself, and nobody else.

Except O'Leary had said there was no shame in leaning on one's love; Castle had said – emphatically – let people help; it's being human.

There she was, snuggled. It seemed that her subconscious had made some decisions for her – probably the day she came here. Mostly, it had decided that Castle was the one she could rely on; lean on.

Her subconscious had had a damn good idea (for once). She stayed close, head on his chest, listening to a rhythmic heartbeat, her arm over him. Shortly, she drifted back into sleep, without having un-snuggled for a second.

When she woke up again, Castle was still there, watching her through hazy blue eyes.

"Staring is creepy," she teased, with no snark at all.

"Appreciation is flattering," he batted back. "Why shouldn't I appreciate you?" He gently rearranged her to be tucked in again – and then mischievously whipped the cover off. "There. Now I can appreciate the full beauty of the view."

Beckett started to grab the cover back and realised a fraction too late that it wasn't the best idea. "Ow," she emitted, and curled up again.

"Are you okay?" Castle flipped from teasing to concerned in an instant.

Beckett very cautiously unfurled and tested herself by extending her arms to the sides. "Yeah... I guess. I just went a little higher than I should've." She sat up, her sleep tee falling down one shoulder. "Good reason to stick to the physio schedule."

"Yeah, right. Like you're not doing more than it says," Castle said cynically.

Beckett blushed guiltily. "I want to be better. I don't get to go back to work till I can pass the physical tests. And then there's the psych review..."

"Uh?" Somehow the finer details of returning to work had passed Castle by.

"Physical and psychological review. They don't want you back if you can't do the whole of the job. Being" – she hitched – " _shot_ can leave some pretty messy backlash."

"PTSD?"

"Yeah."

"I'll be there," he promised. "If you need me..."

"So far, it's okay. I had a few moments up at the cabin, but nothing since." She smiled, open and honest. "No nightmares."

"Just...tell me, okay? If there are."

"Okay," she said simply, and the acceptance in her words sent his soul soaring.

All he said, however, was, "Breakfast?"

"Please."

Castle bounced off to prepare breakfast on another beautiful sunny morning, as happy as he could possibly be. She was _letting him in_.

"Let's go into town this morning," Castle suggested as they were finishing their coffee. "I have a craving for those cinnamon buns."

"Sweet tooth or what?" Beckett grinned.

"You ate half of mine the first time. This time you can have your own."

"Okay, then. Give me ten minutes."

Half an hour later they were parking in town. Beckett adjusted her sunglasses, and swung happily along the sidewalk to the Golden Pear cafe, where they bought enough cinnamon buns, raisin scones, and brownies to feed an army for a week. The necessities purchased, they perambulated around, window shopped, and generally amused themselves happily before returning to Castle's home for lunch, after which they disposed themselves by the pool and prepared for an afternoon much like the previous day.

Beckett was just settling into her book when her phone cheeped. Expecting it to be any of Lanie, O'Leary, Ryan or Espo, she automatically looked at it.

She drew in a strangled breath.

"What is it?" Castle said, pulling himself out of the pool in a hurry.

"Dad..." she said hopelessly. "I don't want to read it."

Castle rapidly dried himself off, wrapped the towel round his hips, and sat down on Beckett's lounger where he could put an arm around her and see the screen of her phone.

"Why not?"

"If it's like last time, it'll be pleading for me to bail him out," she said coldly. "And I won't."

"Want me to look?" Castle offered, after the silence had stretched out for some moments.

"No, I'll do it." She turned a little away from him, and tapped on the screen.

There was a stunned silence.

"What is it?"

Beckett handed him the phone to read.

"He must be going back to fix himself," she said. "I didn't think... I couldn't believe... and I just ran away because I thought it would all be like before and I should have trusted him..." She started to rise.

Castle tugged her back down. "Don't be dumb," he snapped, instantly angered by her descent into self-blame. "He's only fixing himself _because_ you left. Just like the first time, huh? He didn't go to rehab then till you walked away."

She sniffled. "He shouldn't have to go to rehab at all."

"He didn't say he was. I guess he's going back to AA," Castle mused.

Beckett shuddered, and was tucked in more firmly.

"Either way, it's not your problem. You're staying here with me." He went for annoying. "I can't eat all that sweet stuff you made me buy on my own."

"I didn't make you buy it!"

"You did so. You stood at the counter and made little hungry noises until I succumbed to your desperation and bought things."

"You were drooling down the cabinet. I practically had to swim out of the cafe." Castle heard the snark with relief.

"No more than you were. I'm surprised I made it out without you tackling me for the baked goods."

"Carry on like that and I'll eat them all when you're not looking," she growled.

"There, that's better. Let's go get some of them, and then talk sensibly now you're not drowning in self-blame."

"Only in your drool," Beckett muttered. Castle ignored that quite happily as he ambled off, and shortly returned, more respectably clad in a t-shirt and shorts, with coffee and a selection of the pastries.

Somewhat to Castle's surprise, Beckett made a good effort at eating. He'd expected her to pick at something, leaving a pile of crumbs equivalent to the pastry on the plate; but instead she actually chewed and swallowed.

"See, you like it." He added a salacious waggle of his eyebrows and achieved a Beckett patent eye-roll in return. "I could do other things you like."

"Make more coffee?"

"I was thinking of something a little more...tactile – but just as hot," he smiled rakishly, slithered up next to her and simply kissed her. Kissing seemed a much better option than sensible conversation, which might yet be necessary but was, well, boring.

Kissing Beckett was not boring. Kissing Beckett was addictive.

He ran one hand up, into her hair, cradling her skull and re-angling her to be able to take full advantage of lush, already-opening lips and mouth, and wrapped the other hand around her waist, dropping to her hip, sneaking under her loose t-shirt to meet warm skin. She sighed gently and brought her arms around him, still limited in her range of movement, but her hands also found skin and the firm muscle of his back. He teased, explored, tantalised; careful – _so_ careful – not to allow impulse to overrule him: he couldn't pull her in, press her against him, let them blaze and flare and then explode together. He had to be slow, be cautious, be gentle. Beckett emitting soft little noises and stroking through his mouth was _not_ helping with any of that. She, in fact, was trying to go further, move faster, light them up.

He gave in, ceded control and surrendered to Beckett, trusting that she'd know her own limits. She responded instantly, deepening her kiss, passionate and demanding, insisting that he be hers, give her everything he could; staking her claim and searching for his agreement. Her hands stayed firmly below the level of his shoulders, but that left her an enormous number of options and right then she was taking advantage of several of them. Castle took advantage too, but was considerably constrained by the desire to avoid both her scars and Beckett having – er – got in first.

Just before matters really started getting out of hand – that would have been Castle's hands: Beckett had matters firmly _in_ hand – she stopped, or at least slowed up enough that Castle wasn't right on the verge of forgetting every good intention he'd had and simply picking her up and taking her to bed. He compromised by kissing her a little more, and then she pulled away a fraction.

"We have to stop," she grumbled.

"Yeah... at least out here."

She looked questioningly at him.

"See how you feel later. These chairs aren't comfy." It was an evasion, and from the look on her face, she knew it, but she didn't comment, simply smiled a secretive, sly smile and nibbled on a convenient brownie. Castle was instantly suspicious of her intentions, and also a little aroused. He took out his suspicion on an innocent raisin scone.

"What am I going to do about Dad?"

"Why do you need to do anything, yet?" She halted, surprised. "You don't need to do anything until he proves he's fixed things. Just stay here, heal, eat brownies... sleep in the sunshine."

"But..."

"But what? It's up to him to come to you. It's up to you to get better and get back to normal."

Castle's matter-of-fact tone left Beckett silenced. She hadn't really thought that it could be that simple... just wait. Do nothing. She wasn't constitutionally good at doing nothing and waiting – which made her a shit-hot investigator, but was possibly unhelpful when it came to her father's... issues.

"I want to run," she said frustratedly. "Punch the bag. Do _something_ that isn't just the physio or ambling around like a crippled snail."

"You could shoot things, if you can lift your arms high enough."

"What?"

"I go to the range in town. You could come. Shoot a few targets, work off your frustration..."

"Why didn't you tell me days ago?"

"You weren't in any state to hear it, and then O'Leary came, and now you're a bit better and I'm telling you. So what about it, Detective? We could add a little competition, if you like?"

"Competition?"

"Surely you remember I can shoot? Though you should have cuddled me too."

Beckett's eyes flashed. "Are you saying you can outshoot me?"

"If the cap fits..." Castle replied annoyingly.

"Bring it on."

"Sure. Now, or after dinner?"

Beckett held her arms out. They wobbled. "After dinner."

Castle knew he was being entirely unfair. Even at her best, Beckett wasn't much better than he was – he'd seen her practice, and it was a pretty close thing. But... she needed a distraction, and this was certainly a good distraction both for her irritation and his total frustration. The choice was a competition, or a cold shower, and cold showers were not Castle's favourite pursuit.

Dinner was eaten briskly and slightly earlier than usual, and they repaired to the range. Beckett waited while Castle made some arrangements, then collected a Glock and ear defenders, ready to begin.

"I haven't shot since May," she said. "And you obviously have, so I need to get my eye in first."

"Okay. Wouldn't want to take unfair advantage of you."

She went to a booth, and shortly Castle heard both shooting and considerable swearing, albeit quietly, in Beckett's clipped precinct tones.

"You okay?" he called.

"I will be."

He was just about to go and investigate that not entirely reassuring answer when Beckett continued.

"I am _so_ out of practice," she growled. "This is crap. Espo would have my ass." She descended into an indistinguishable series of mutters and further growls, punctuated by more shots. After a full clip, the growls were a little less growly and the swearing had diminished somewhat.

"Okay," she said from behind him. Castle jumped. "I'm not betting on this outcome. But let's give it a go."

A pout appeared on Castle's lips. He'd wanted a little bet, returns not in cash but in kisses. Still, he could have kisses in any event. If Beckett had sneaked into his room the previous night, then surely she'd be happy to be invited that night? He'd really like to make it very clear that she should simply move into his room. He also had some thoughts on Beckett's thoroughly unsubtle signals as to what she wanted, mainly centred around providing it in a way that both of them could enjoy. He had a feeling that Beckett had been having some very similar thoughts.

"You're on," he said. "Ten shots each, best aggregate score wins?"

"Seems fair," she said. "Though you should have a handicap."

"Nuh-uh. We can do this again when you're back in practice."

It was Beckett's turn to pout. She turned away before Castle could stroke the protruded lip with a mischievous finger, and went back to the booth. Castle raised his gun and sighted, took his ten shots with care, and waited.

"I won," he said, when the scores were totted up. "Ninety six."

"Surprise, surprise," Beckett grumped. She hadn't bothered looking at the sheets.

"But only by three points."

"You what now? Three?"

"Yep, only three. You're closer than you think."

She smiled. "Three? That's well over requalification." A tension slipped away from her. "That's great. And I didn't spook or anything, so there won't be any problem with the psych eval either."

Astonishingly, she hugged him hard, unprompted. "That was a great idea, Castle. Thanks."

"We can come back a few times, if you like. We've got all summer."

Beckett stepped back and stared at him. "All summer?"

"Yeah..." Castle abruptly realised that he'd never actually told Beckett that he was inviting her for the whole of the summer, and clearly she'd never considered that he might have done. "Um... if you want to and can and if you don't have to go back to work yet and...um... I'd really like it if you stayed," he blurted.

"I only brought enough clothes for a week at most."

"There are shops, or we could go back down to the city for a day and collect them. And I do have a washing machine."

"I couldn't impose" –

"You aren't. I invited you. I want you to stay for as long as you want to stay."

Beckett was still staring at him. Castle played back the last sentences, and worked out that he'd sounded appallingly... what? Needy? Desperate? Hopeful?

"That sounded more like an instruction than an invitation."

Oh. He'd sounded appallingly dictatorial.

"Are you sure?"

Or not.

"Yes." He only just doesn't add _of course I'm sure, just watch me propose_.

"Oh." There was an instant's hesitation, and then undemonstrative, blocked-off Beckett hugged him again, and didn't let go. Naturally, he hugged her back. It took a moment to notice that her shoulders were shaking and her face was buried in his shirt.

"Hey, hey. None of that. I'll be thrown out. Or shot, if someone thinks it was my fault." Neither seemed to have an effect. She was sobbing very quietly, with some half-audible words mixed in. Sadly, they made no sense at all, because all he could really hear was snuffling.

"Home time," he said after a moment, and steered her out of the range, still tucked into the crook of his arm. She sniffed and complied.

"What was that about?" he asked as they drove home. Answer came there none. Sniffs came in profusion. They'd almost reached home when she managed words.

"Dad couldn't cope with me."

Castle exited the car before he answered that. He waited for her to get out, and then hauled her far too firmly against him. " _I am not your father_. I can cope with you here just fine. Stop insulting me," he added, with a grin. It entirely failed to lighten the mood.

"Sorry," Beckett mumbled, and tried to pull away. Castle didn't like that.

"And stop running away. I want you to stay. I can cope just fine," he repeated. "I've seen your scars, I saw you get shot and then I saw you flatline and _die_ , Beckett, and nothing at all could ever be worse than that. If I can cope with that I can cope with your little foibles and failings." He paused. "Unless _you_ don't want to stay? Though I have to say that you'd have to go some to convince me of that since you've been sneaking into my bed, sneakily kissing me, and actually hugging me in public, so I don't think you want to leave at all. You're just being silly and getting scared."

"Not silly."

"Are so being silly. Stop it."

Since pulling away wasn't happening for Beckett, which had been Castle's whole point, she went the other way and tried to bury her face in his collarbone.

"That's better. Stop worrying about your dad and start leaning on me for a bit. I'm very comforting to lean on. It's what – partners – do."

"Can I get a coffee?"

Castle recognised the deflection instantly, but at after nine p.m. he wasn't going to make a fight out of it. He'd rather Beckett was snuggled into him for the rest of the evening and night. Fighting, if required, could wait until tomorrow.

"Sure."

Coffee was, again, taken by the pool, stargazing. At least, Castle was stargazing, arm around Beckett. Beckett was staring into the dark water, and hadn't raised her eyes from it since she'd located her coffee mug.

"Dad fishes," she said inconsequentially, "at night, sometimes. He says the fish bite better then."

"Mmm?"

"I never believed him. Mom didn't either."

"Mmm?"

"I really hate fish. If he hadn't been going fishing, he wouldn't have been able to hide his drinking. I'd have noticed sooner."

"Likely that's why he went. He knew you'd find out, and he didn't want you to know."

"He shouldn't have needed to." Castle correctly heard _drink_ at the end of that sentence.

"Nope. But he did. You can't help that."

"Can't control, can't cure."

"Didn't cause," Castle added very forcefully. "How many times have I heard you say that murder is on the murderer, not the victim?"

Beckett gasped. Possibly pointing out that the shooter had been intending to kill her hadn't been totally tactful. Still... on balance, necessary.

"This isn't on you. _He_ isn't on you. Let him fix himself. You know you can't, you _said_ you can't, so just stay here with me and forget about him for now." He took a few breaths, exhaling his irritation, and completely changed the subject.

"Um... are you done with your coffee?"

"Yeah." She drained the last drops.

"It's late. Let's take these in, and go to bed." He hesitated slightly, and went for it. "D'you want to sleep in my bed tonight?" There was a silence. "I mean, rather than sneaking in or me taking you there I thought you might like an invitation?" More silence. "Beckett?"

She suddenly pressed herself close. "Yes. Yes, I do."

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers, guest and named._


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

Castle's bed, Beckett thought, was particularly comfortable. Of course, that had much to do with the faint, pleasant scent of Castle, and even more to do with the presence of large, warm body of Castle. She turned into said large, warm body, and disposed herself around it. Her mind wandered back to their earlier make-out session, and the thoughts she'd had about how to...um... enjoy each other without damaging her half-healed scars and without raising her arms above her shoulders.

As her mind wandered, so did her hands. One hand, attached to an arm carefully bent at the elbow, wandered over Castle's broad shoulder – just one shoulder, since her head was pillowed on the other – and then up to his slightly scratchy jaw line. She'd never told him how sexy the scruff was at the end of a long day. He rumbled happily and brought a hand up to rest against her scapula, fidgeting his fingers gently. Amazingly, it wasn't irritating or tickling her. Her thumb slipped across his jaw, closer and closer to his lips, her featherlight touch learning the curves of his face, the small dents at the edge of his mouth, the cleft in his chin. His rumble added an edge of leonine purr as she touched his lips, and he kissed her thumb as it glided by.

Her other hand also wandered, rather less innocently. It paused for a while at his firm pecs, playing idly along his side, then, done with that, skated down Castle's abs and on to his hip, where it rested peacefully while she stroked his face. Castle's fingers had moved their fidgeting down somewhat, to the small of her back, where fidgeting was gradually becoming more of a stroke, a longer sweep of his wide span. It was very soothing, causing her to hum contentedly and curve a fraction into the warm pressure, not demanding or urgent, simply a slow, smooth petting which relaxed her spine and limbs. He was considerably more present than he had been a moment ago. Beckett reorganised her legs to drape about his, and thereby found that Castle was delightfully firm. She wiggled a little to be perfectly positioned, and found that Castle had two very available hands not just one, both of which were now fully engaged in petting her in a mildly meaningful fashion, which was precisely what she wanted.

Petting ceased. That was deeply unwanted – oh. Castle's broad hands carefully rearranged themselves around her skull, cupping her face, and brought her to his mouth without causing the slightest twinge. She was quite happy with the change, she decided. His lips were soft, teasing, and gentle: he ran the tip of his tongue along the seam of her mouth and she happily opened to let him in, nipping lightly on his lower lip to encourage him to kiss her more intently. Kisses were exactly what she needed.

The assured touch didn't hurt either. Castle's hands glided down her back and drifted under her sleep tee, not encroaching on sensitive areas, but Beckett was quite sure that with a bit of encouragement that could be arranged. She gave herself up to the kiss: mutual exploration, delicate but never diffident, starting where they'd left off earlier, but learning how different it felt when they were tucked together in bed, naked legs entwined, her soft t-shirt over his bare chest, the flimsy barrier of boxers and panties between heat and hardness.

She deepened her kiss, tracing his mouth, twining her tongue into his and letting her hands cradle his face: everything slow and easy, nothing that could break the dreamy, drifting mood around them. Slowly, responses intensified, he held her closer, his hands firm and starting to slide over the swell of her ass; she moved from his mouth to his neck, and heard his mutter of _come back_ with pleasure, nibbled at his ear and mischievously teased the shell until he emitted a deep noise and essayed some teasing of his own.

She slid sideways to allow herself to make more mischief at his ear, which helpfully freed his torso to her wandering hands, still slow, but slithering further southward over suddenly-tense stomach. His hands cupped her at shoulder and rear, a little wickedness, a teasing stroke to match hers; and heat swirled in her stomach.

Castle shifted slightly, and Beckett found herself looking up at him looming over her.

"Easier," was all he said. She could get on board with that. He leaned down and kissed her searchingly, tracing down her stomach, returning to pull up the soft tee and expose her breasts.

"How do we take this off?" he mused.

"Carefully," Beckett flipped back. "Very, very carefully."

"Do you want it taken off?"

She smiled seductively. Silly man. Of course she did. "I could easily be persuaded," she husked.

"Could you? Guess I'll need to do some persuading." He ran a light stroke just below her breasts, then dipped his head again and flicked his tongue over them. Beckett found herself positively purring with pleasure, and returned the favour by petting his pert ass, with a wicked little flicker of her own fingers which produced a rasping growl. Castle persisted in his ministrations, until Beckett was more panting than purring and perfectly persuaded that the t-shirt should go. She executed a complex wriggle developed precisely to avoid any discomfort, and the t-shirt departed her arms. After that Castle disposed of it – where, she had no idea, and nor would he since his eyes hadn't been on the t-shirt at all.

"Even more gorgeous than in a bikini," he murmured against the creamy side of her breast, and kissed it delicately, avoiding the surgical scar and bullet wound. Beckett liked that. She held his head in place, so that he would do it again, and again – and he did. So in return she petted and stroked and left him just as aroused as she was. The slight stubble tantalised her, but then her nails would tantalise him too, and they did.

Slowly, heat built between them, languorous strokes, sensuous touches, nothing hurried, nothing harsh or rough or forceful. It was almost serene, small soft noises, careful movements, lightness: until she pulled him over her, hands at his waist, guided him home and sighed in satisfaction as he sank into her mouth and body both, stroked her intimately and brought her over with him, rolled away but left his hand in hers.

"Are you okay?" he asked, after a moment.

"Yeah." The smile on her lips was there in her voice. "All good." Her fingers twined across his. "Sleepy."

Castle could hear her slowing down. "Sleep, then."

"Yeah."

He lay, listening to her breathing ease out, sensing her limbs relaxing, but just as he thought she was completely asleep he heard a tiny murmur. "Was perfect."

He thought so too. None of the high drama or emotions that might have prompted it – okay, so they'd _had_ to be slow and gentle because of Beckett's injuries, but they hadn't been angry and it certainly hadn't simply been an overspill of the sexual tension and downright lust that had sparked between them for the last three years. It had been, well, he hated the term, but it fitted – growth. Emotional growth and a natural extension, not some crisis-driven outpouring that wouldn't be real the next day. Or, more accurately, that neither of them would admit to being real the next day. That, however, had been real, it had been loving, and more importantly it would still be real the following day.

He slipped into sleep, still clasping Beckett's limp hand, on a tide of happiness.

* * *

In Manhattan, Jim was sitting in his apartment, staring at the AA booklets on his table and his hands in equal quantity. He was not staring at his sponsor, who was sitting across from him, quietly waiting. He couldn't meet Ed's eyes.

"I fell off the wagon," he eventually scratched out. "Seven years dry and I fell off."

"What happened?" Ed asked, no judgment or condemnation in his tone, only understanding.

"Katie got shot." He raised his gaze to Ed's. "She _died_ , Ed. Twice in the ambulance, and once in surgery. But they brought her back."

"Mmmm?"

"So I took her up to our cabin to recover when she got out of the hospital, and a week in she slipped and fell and broke her arm and I thought she'd been shot again. Her screaming in pain..." He swallowed hard. "I couldn't stand seeing her die too."

"Too?"

"My wife was murdered. I...didn't take it well. Took me five years to stop drinking then. I couldn't deal with Katie dead too..." He swallowed again. "Anyway. I managed the first time in the hospital because she was okay before I could leave and Rick was there and he was as upset as me – more, maybe – and I couldn't let him down."

"Who's Rick?"

"Rick Castle. That author fellow. He follows Katie around for his books – you know the Heat books?" Ed nodded. "Well, Katie was his inspiration, in the beginning, but now he's head over heels for her and I really thought she was for him... still do. I asked him to stop her but he couldn't, and then she got shot and I reckon he blamed himself for that. So I couldn't be less than him. But then she fell down the stairs and there was no-one but me... and I couldn't do it. I couldn't cope."

"No shame in that."

"So I needed it... and just a little helped. I didn't have the nightmares and I didn't see her dying or sprawled out on the ground. But then... I don't know how she found out but she did and then she just left. Didn't say a word to me, just left me a note and ran straight to Rick."

"You don't sound like that's a good thing," Ed said neutrally.

"I _know_ he couldn't have stopped her. But he _should have_."

"I get it. You know you shouldn't blame him but you can't help feeling he should have done more."

"Yes," Jim admitted miserably. "Except I told him so. And then he said he wasn't the one she was running away from, he was the one she was running to. And cut the call." Another painful swallow. "And then I went into town and next thing I knew I was waking up in the tank and they said Katie didn't want to know."

"And?"

"And I knew she meant it. She meant it the first time and she meant it now. She didn't try to stop me this time. She just walked away and let me drown."

Ed quirked an eyebrow.

"Okay. No. It's not down to her. It's down to me. But..."

"But it's hard." Ed took a moment to think. "Jim, you've taken the first steps already. You're back here, you're talking to me, you're sober right now, you're reflecting on what's happened and you've identified the problem. Have you talked to Katie at all?"

"Not talked. I sent a message. Saying I was trying again and not to give up on me."

"Has she answered?"

"No." Jim's face was lined and old with misery. "I didn't expect her to. If it's like last time, she won't answer till I can tell her truthfully that I'm dry." He sniffed. "Maybe then she'll take the watch back."

"Watch?"

"I gave her my watch, last time. Because the thought of her saved me. She left it with her note..." His control dissolved.

"You can fix this. You've taken the first steps."

"I really hope so."

* * *

A week later, Beckett was beginning to manage a slightly abbreviated breaststroke in the pool, and their range scores were evening up. Castle was still 5-2 ahead, but the margin was no more than a couple of points either way.

"Now you're pretty much better, Beckett, do you want to go back to the city for a day?"

"Why?" she said from her sun lounger, where she was toasting gently to a beautiful golden colour.

Castle's eyes crinkled with his smile. "I thought you might want some more clothes."

"I thought you were pretty keen on me with no clothes," she pointed out.

"Yes, but walking into a restaurant naked isn't your style."

"Restaurant?"

"I thought – even though my cooking is top-notch and my taste in wine exceptional" – Beckett stuck her tongue out very childishly – "you might like to go out for dinner for a change, to somewhere nice. But you can't wear shorts and a t-shirt, or a bikini, so..."

"So I need" –

"A dress," Castle bounced. "Not an evening dress, a pretty sundress would be just fine."

"Or pants and a smart top."

He pouted. "Dress," he reiterated. "I wanna see you in a dress."

Beckett raised a highly cynical eyebrow. "Why?"

There was a noticeable pause in which Castle failed to assemble any sensible thoughts. "It would be pretty."

"Are you saying I'm not pretty if I'm not wearing a dress?"

He gaped. "No. Of course not," he said indignantly. "You're gorgeous in anything. But the restaurant is quite smart and you'd hate to stick out."

Beckett snickered at him. "You're so easy, Castle. Yes, we can go down to the city if you want, though I have a dress here already."

"You do?"

"Yep." Her eyes opened fully. "But...we could get everyone out for a drink. Say hello. Book my psych eval and retesting..." She snapped into focus. "Great idea. When? Now?"

"It's six o'clock. How about tomorrow?"

"Sure." She reached for her phone. "What time shall we say – and can we go to Remy's?"

"My burgers not enough for you?"

"We-ell," she drawled, "your buns are excellent, but Remy's does better burgers."

Castle spluttered, and then kissed her soundly. "Witch," he said affectionately. "Tell them six. Who're you thinking of?"

"Espo, Ryan, Lanie. The old gang."

"Not O'Leary?"

"Not this time." Castle raised his eyebrows. "He and Espo get a bit competitive."

"Oh."

She rapidly tapped out texts, and then put her phone down. "Done."

"Good. When do you want to go?"

"No need to hurry. It won't take me long to pack anything, and the city's horrible in August. I can't go to the precinct, so the only other thing to do would be book the evaluations. Mid-morning? After lunch, maybe?"

"After lunch," Castle decided. "Might as well enjoy the morning."

The elephant in the room, of course, was that Beckett had neither contacted her father nor heard from him since his text. Still, that wasn't Castle's issue, as long as the universe didn't mess it all up by ensuring that they experienced the million-to-one coincidence of meeting Jim Beckett in the few hours they'd be in Manhattan.

"If you've finished bronzing, let's make dinner."

Beckett drifted through dinner-making without much in the way of conversation or interaction, though she ate well enough when it was done. Castle left her to her thinking, until she should share it. Or, given that this was Beckett, not share it.

Over coffee under the stars, she said out of the blue, "I don't want to."

"Uh?" Castle said inarticulately, having no idea to what she was referring. "Don't want to what?"

"Call Dad."

"Why?"

"We'll be in Manhattan. He's trying. I feel guilty that I'm ignoring it – not even acknowledging that he's trying. But I don't want to get in touch. I don't want to watch it if he fails."

"Mm."

"You told him to get in touch when he was dry. It's up to him."

"I guess." But she didn't sound convinced. Shortly, she got up and wandered past the pool to the edge of the grass, looking out over the dark sea. Castle followed her, and slung an arm around her: there without suffocating her.

"Sleep on it," he said.

"Yeah... I think I might stay out here for a while. It helps. It's so big..."

"Do you want me to stay out with you?"

She stiffened. "Do you mind... not?" It was Castle's turn to stiffen. She breathed in deeply, painfully. "I need some time on my own, to work out what I really think. You... it's too comfortable. Everything seems so easy for you, and then I think it's easy but it's not easy, it shouldn't be easy, there's more to it than just a simple easy answer. You go straight to the fixing things, and I need to work through the whys."

"Okay," Castle said slowly, unable to keep a slight hurt from his voice. Naturally, Beckett picked up on it. Not naturally at all, she explained.

"It's not that I don't appreciate everything. It's just... I need to do this by myself. You said – okay about me getting better but you still said it – you'd let me do it myself. Be strong enough. So let me do this too. You let me get better, and here I am because you did and now I'm strong enough to be here with you. So let me do this, tonight."

Castle still didn't like it. Only a few days in, and he'd become totally used to sliding into sleep with the faint cherry scent of Beckett in his nostrils and the sensation of Beckett's skin next to his. He didn't want to lose that.

"Okay," he said again. "But... when you're done, or sleepy, come in, huh?"

"I will."

Castle turned away inside, leaving Beckett to sink down on to the dry grass and stare out over the sea, not seeing the gleaming on the small swells or the path of the moonlight on the water, but instead finding history in the dark edge of the horizon. The first time... the previous time.

Eventually, she'd given up. Walked away, joined ACOA, Al-Anon, anything that she thought would help her. Dived into the morass of her mother's case, and almost lost her job thereby. Went to therapy, and finally understood. But through all of it, once she understood, she'd waited until he was dry. She couldn't hold him up; couldn't control or cure him. She hadn't, in the end, tried.

So, here she was again. Same situation. Same options. Only difference was that she'd walked away immediately.

Well. _Not_ the only difference. Because the first time, he'd taken months – years – to realise that she was gone for good, unless he fixed it. This time, he'd taken a week. _Conditioning_ , she thought acidly. The previous time, she'd finally done what she'd said she would do – left, and not contacted him – so he'd taken the painful lesson and was already taking steps, sure that she'd meant it.

She had. Every last tear-stained word of the note had been meant with her whole heart and mind and shattered soul.

She stared out, into the unforgiving ocean and the cool moonlight flickering on the tide. It had been a week since she received his text, and she hadn't replied. She hadn't replied the first time. If she replied, would she be rewarding his fall – or his struggle to get up again? Did she want to reply to assuage her guilt or to help him, or both?

The dark sky and wide ocean gave her no answers: she would have to find those within herself. For a moment, she wished she'd asked Castle to stay: to hold her undemandingly, and to reflect her thoughts. Only... she wouldn't think, she'd put it off: snuggle into Castle and ignore it.

Time passed, and her thoughts circled her head: round and round the hamster wheel. Another week, she eventually decided. She'd give him one more week, and re-assess then.

Quietly, she went inside, prepared for bed, and slid in beside Castle, who mumbled contentedly in his sleep as she curled in and held him close.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

 _Only three chapters left after this one._


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

Castle and Beckett were first to Remy's, her raid on her own closets swiftly completed – without Castle's help, but with plenty of Castle's complaining that he wasn't allowed to help – and her evaluations booked for the earliest date possible. Beckett was still complaining that she couldn't take the evaluations until early September as they sat down, but Castle had stopped listening to the whining some time earlier and was speculating wildly, salaciously, and, most crucially for his continued existence, silently on the contents of her bag;,until everyone else turned up. Fortunately Lanie appeared before his speculations became spoken.

"Girl, where'd you get that tan? Usually you're whiter than a vampire."

"Lying on a sun lounger in the sun."

"Hope you don't have tan lines if that's what you've been doing." She essayed a tug at Beckett's t-shirt.

Beckett tapped Lanie's fingers firmly. "Paws off."

"Yeah, we know whose paws are the ones allowed on," Lanie smirked. "You got that look."

Beckett blushed furiously. Castle's ears turned pink, though since he had a very satisfied and smug smile that might merely have been the outside temperature.

"Shut up," she scowled.

"Anyway, when's your tan self coming back?"

Beckett scowled harder. "I can't even take evals till early September. So... mid-September?"

"Mid-September? How'd you get a vacation like that?"

"Got shot, Espo. Remember? Wanna swap?"

"I'm good, thanks." Esposito subsided, but Beckett didn't seem upset.

"Hey, Ryan." She surveyed him. "How can you still be wearing a sweater-vest in August?"

Ryan cringed. He did, now Beckett looked closely, appear to be very hot and uncomfortable. "Lost a bet," he admitted.

"Take it off," she ordered. "Espo, that was cruelty to dumb Ryans."

"Hey!" Ryan complained.

"How'd you know it was me?" Espo groused.

"Experience. I don't wanna know," she added, as Espo started on the tale. "Go get the beers in" –

"Are you allowed beer, girl?"

"Yes," Beckett said definitively. "You're not my doctor. Beer."

Lanie huffed insincerely, and failed to manage a disapproving gaze. Espo groused his way to the bar, and back again with beer. Castle tucked himself a little closer to Beckett, and then smirked and put his arm round her in a casually familiar fashion which produced no surprise at all from anyone. He pouted, disappointedly.

"We've been waiting for you to admit it for years. Not surprised."

"I'm surprised," Espo grinned. "I'm surprised these two dumbasses managed to get it together."

Everybody glared at him. "What? You were all thinking it." Under the laser effect of Beckett's glare, he shrivelled, and hid behind his beer bottle before he could commit suicide-by-Beckett.

Espo suitably quelled, conversation stayed light, bright, and covered a great deal of shop talk, in which Beckett participated enthusiastically. Around nine, she stretched carefully.

"Time to break up the party, guys."

Lanie looked at her. There had, Lanie thought, been a remarkable lack of any comment about Kate's father. The conversation had been quite carefully diverted from any discussion of the fact that Kate had started in their cabin, returned to New York, and then been whisked off to Castle's Hamptons mansion to live in luxury. Lanie considered her options, and opted for safety, saying nothing.

Unfortunately, Ryan was not as smart.

"How's your dad taking you shacking up with Castle? Hasn't he got his shotgun out yet?"

There was a horrible silence. Even without the recent events, that would _not_ have been a tactful way to draw attention to the changed relationship.

Beckett had gone white. She opened her mouth, shut it again, delivered a searing expression aimed firmly at Ryan, and stalked out, alone.

"What the _fuck_ did you say that for?" Lanie hissed, cutting off Castle's words. Castle, trapped by the placement of the other three, was frantically trying to get out of the bar and, short of throwing Ryan out of the way (which, from Castle's face, was an option), wasn't succeeding fast enough.

"What?" Ryan said blankly. "I didn't say anything."

" _Get out of my way_!" Castle snapped, and when they didn't move fast enough, simply shoved, without care that Lanie ended up sitting down and Ryan nearly hit the floor.

"Go get her, bro," Espo said to his departing back, entirely unheard, and then turned to add his two cents' worth to Lanie's vicious imprecations.

Castle barrelled out of the bar door and stood, desperately looking around for Beckett's dark head. Finally he spotted it, moving slowly in the direction of the subway: clearly, she was going home. That wasn't necessarily bad, since his car was parked there. That she hadn't waited for him, however, was pretty unequivocally dreadful. Except...if she was going to break down, she'd do it at home, and she'd know he'd have to come back there... so maybe it wasn't quite so bad after all. He speeded up, and reached her as she started down the steps into the subway.

"Kate?"

She slowed, but didn't stop. His arm caught around her, and she stepped into him. "Don't talk," she forced. "Don't say _anything_." In her voice he heard overwhelming strain. He obeyed, only letting go of her, however, to go through the turnstiles, and immediately re-catching her, all the way to her apartment.

Inside, he simply held her, still not saying a word, until she crumpled: not crying, but chilled and lax.

"Can we just go?" she whispered. "I want to go home."

"Yes."

Two hours later, in which Beckett had either slept or done such a good imitation that she might as well have been sleeping, they arrived at Castle's home.

"We're here."

Nothing arose but a sleepy noise. Waking wasn't on Beckett's schedule, it seemed. Castle pulled the car right up to the door, got out, went round to the passenger side, and undid the seatbelt. Then he considered the general logistics, the state of his spine, and the dead weight of a slumbering Beckett. He bent down, slipped his hands under her to lift her bridal style – and found that without at least some co-operation and starting from her being at a higher elevation than a low-slung Ferrari, he could either seriously damage his back or he could think of another plan. Regrettably, the only plan he could think of was to wake her, which he hadn't wanted to do.

"Wake up, Beckett."

"No."

"Wake up long enough to sleep in a bed, not a car."

"Urgh."

An eyelid lifted, didn't like it, and shut. Then it lifted again, the other followed, and Beckett's minimal consciousness emitted a groan.

"Are we home?"

"Yes. C'mon. You can go to sleep in a real bed. You'll be really uncomfy if you sleep in the car."

She staggered out of the car and into the house, and then, without pausing, towards the bedrooms. Castle followed in case she fell over, but didn't touch her. She disappeared into her own room, which wasn't surprising, and a few moments later Castle heard the noises of her crossing the corridor into his. Relieved, he made himself a drink and considered Ryan's total idiocy. He didn't get very far, mainly because every time he thought of it he also thought of how satisfying it would be to flay Ryan from the feet up and then salt the wounds. It was really quite lucky that he liked him, otherwise he'd get truly creative.

After a while, he went to bed himself, finding Beckett curled foetally into herself, pale on the pillows. He slipped an arm over her, pressed a kiss to her neck, and fell asleep around her.

* * *

Beckett woke, far too early for her liking, but unable to return to sleep. Castle was breathing softly on the other side of the bed, a small smile on his lips. She wasn't going to disturb him. She left to dress in her own room, and then slipped outside to the same spot as the previous night. She would cheerfully still shoot Ryan for reopening the wound she'd barely stitched together – her fingers unconsciously went to the scar – two nights ago.

Somewhere in the background, a bird was cheeping; shortly joined by another, which chirped. It was just like early morning at the cabin, though likely it was different birds, she thought idly. Her mind drifted while the sun rose, rays gleaming on the sea. In the clear light of the early morning, she let her mind wander where it would. Far too frequently, it wandered back to Ryan's careless words. _How's your dad taking it_? She hadn't a clue. She _should_ have a clue. Ought to...

No.

No.

No!

She _went_ through this. It was _not_ her issue. It was her dad's. She couldn't help it. Him. He had to do it for himself. In a week... maybe he'd call or text, maybe he wouldn't. But she couldn't control it.

And she had Castle. If her father didn't come out of his whiskey-soaked rabbit hole... Castle had her back – and she'd have his, if it ever came to that.

She – oh. She'd said to Castle: _you have to let me do it myself. You'll want to do everything for me_. Just like she had wanted to fix her dad, the first time round, just like she was thinking she ought to now... Same thing. Well, not quite. But close enough. She'd asked Castle to be strong enough to let her be. Now she had to be strong enough to let her father fix himself, without her.

She stood, stretched carefully, and there in the early morning sunshine breathed in, out, in, out: calming down, thinking it through, gradually internalising the rightness of her choice.

And then she went and made herself coffee, quietly, still barely after six, and drank it, and did her physio exercises under the summer sunshine: a little stronger, arms a little higher, a few more reps; and went down to walk on the sandy beach and watch the waves wash in, out, in, out: as slow and steady as her breathing. She walked for a long time: there, and back again.

When she came back up the narrow path, Castle was sitting on the grass waiting for her, a slight concern on his face which dissolved as he saw her. She sat down beside him.

"He has to fix himself," she said quietly, and tucked herself into his side. "I can't – I won't. He'll be in touch when" – she didn't say _if_ – "he's ready. Just like I was."

Castle hugged her, and didn't say a word. They sat together in the warming sun, silent, but at peace: her head on his shoulder, his arm around her, their hands linked, resting on his thigh.

"I just have to wait. I should... it must... how did you manage to wait for me? It's so hard not to get in touch. I want to... but I can't."

"You just... take it a day, or an hour, or a minute at a time. And when it's hard – harder – you remember why, and what you're waiting for, and... eyes on the prize." His arm squeezed a little tighter: she pressed a little closer. "You have to have a reason." He swallowed. "I did."

She turned in his clasp, and laid a delicate, fleeting kiss to his jaw. "And here I am, because..." – she swallowed in turn – "I won the prize."

"We both did," he murmured. "We both won, Kate." His free hand slid up to cup her face as he dipped to kiss her.

Some long while later, they parted lips, though arms remained around each other.

"It nearly killed me, you know."

"You seem pretty alive to me, for a nearly-dead man."

"Funny." He spent a moment proving that he was alive. "I mean not being able to contact you," he pointed out. "It... I knew I had to because you asked me to – it was the _only_ thing you've ever asked me to do that really mattered but it was so hard. And that was only really a week I had to wait."

"But you did. You... you stood for me then, even if you didn't know, because you trusted me to get better. Be strong enough. You... you don't know how much that meant. How much I needed someone who thought I could be strong."

Her eyes were liquid. "I didn't know if I could be strong enough. You let me be. Made me be. When it mattered, you were standing for me."

"Just like you'd stand for me. Every time. That's... you make your stand, and we've found each other to stand with."

"Yes." She paused, and swallowed, gulped again. "I love you too," she whispered, and kissed him again. Another long silence fell, though close communication continued.

"Breakfast?" Castle said, eventually.

"Yeah."

"Pancakes?"

"Nothing to thank me for," Beckett said, and added mischievously, "yet."

Castle's eyes lit up. "Call it thanks in advance, and let's have blueberry pancakes." He stood, raised her with hands on her waist not by pulling her arms, couldn't resist the kiss and then stayed, forehead to hers, for that one further moment of contentment. His Beckett, her Castle, their togetherness.

Beckett proved adept at pancake mixing, if awkward, but Castle reserved the cooking to himself. She smiled and let him, watching him toss pancakes and catch them neatly. She couldn't have held the pan up for that long – for any length of time. Shortly there was a large stack of pancakes and a jug of maple syrup on the table, plates, cutlery, and coffee. The pancakes disappeared almost as quickly as Beckett's coffee.

"Let's spend the day by the pool," Beckett suggested.

"You just want to ogle my ruggedly handsome face and body," Castle teased.

"And you won't be leering down my bikini top?"

"Of course I will. That's the whole point of lazing by the pool." He put another pancake on her plate, cut it up, poured syrup over it, and then lifted a soused piece to her lips. Her tongue peeked out at him, and she ate it from his fork.

He wasn't going to do that again, this side of this evening. He wasn't going to stand up – on his _feet_ , dammit – for a moment or two, either. Later, though, ah, later, he would concoct a dessert _and_ feed it to her, and then... then they would see. She hadn't noticed, but he had, that her arms had raised a little higher: enough to curl around his shoulders, which was enough that she needn't stop to take care, should she wish to press _go_.

But for now, lazing in the sunshine and the pool sounded like an excellent way to spend a day.

Breakfast finished and cleared, Beckett disappeared to her own room, Castle to his, and both emerged clad in loose t-shirts and, in Castle's case, shorts. Beckett hadn't bothered. Her legs stretched endlessly from the t-shirt hem, lightly tanned from the time she'd been here.

"Shall I do your back?" he asked happily.

"Please."

They reached the pool and Beckett slipped her t-shirt off. Castle gleeped.

"That's not a bikini."

"It's a swimming costume, Captain Obvious."

"I _know_. You wore it in LA." _And I dreamed about you exiting the pool dripping wet in that costume for months_.

She smiled slyly. "You liked it. You _really_ liked it."

"You... you deliberately trailed it in front of me?"

"No. I deliberately trailed it in front of that suspect. You were just a happy bonus." She bit her lip, nervously. "I came back out, but you'd just closed your door."

"You were with Josh."

"Yeah..." Her sly smile reappeared. "But I'm not now."

"No. You're with me."

"You're with me."

"We're with each other," Castle said firmly. "Now, didn't you say something about sun lotion and your back?" He leered cheerfully down at her, making it obvious that he admired the view.

"Yep." She swayed over to a sun lounger, dropped her Kindle and t-shirt on the table by it, and lay down, her hair messily knotted high on her head. Castle was just about to perch on the side to rub lotion in when she sat up again. "You first," she said.

"Okay, but why?"

"Because." Which was not an answer at all, but the sly smile had turned sensuous and if Beckett wanted to put her hands all over him Castle was very cool with that. As long as he could reciprocate, of course. "Sit on the end of the lounger and I'll do your back." He happily complied, stripping off his t-shirt. Beckett wiggled up close to him and removed the sun lotion from his hand. The action involved her leaning forward and pressing against his back, which was very nice, and then a kiss on his neck, which was also very nice, but unfairly not returnable from his current alignment. Nor was the kiss between his shoulder blades returnable. Fortunately, before he turned round and did some kissing of his own, she stopped, and he heard the squelch of the lotion and then the cold of it hitting his back. He squeaked.

"Baby," she said affectionately. "It's just cold. It won't hurt you." Castle muttered darkly and plotted revenge. His plotting was halted in favour of luxuriating when Beckett began to smooth the lotion over the planes of his back, shortly joined by contented noises. She might not be able to use massage force, but her hands were _wonderful_. The forced lightness of her touch danced along his skin, the delicate strokes teased down nerves he hadn't known could spark, and the warmth within him didn't come from the sun. He purred, positively purred, like a large and lazy lion, and enjoyed her hands gliding up and down his back. Gradually, they encroached on the top of his swim shorts, and then flickered a little way beneath. He tensed. The naughty fingertips teased.

"Careful," he said.

"You're ticklish?"

"No. But I am sensitive..."

Beckett snickered happily. "You're safe with me." Her fingers stopped short of anything too provocative, and smoothed back up over his spine. "There. All done. My turn."

Castle took a moment to finish spreading lotion on his front, arms and legs. "Now it's your turn," he noted. "Where shall I start?"

"I only need you to do my back."

"But you _want_ me to do all of you. Just like I did the other day..." His voice trailed off in an enticing fashion.

"You didn't give me that option."

Castle merely smiled. "I didn't want you to over-exert yourself. No relapses required."

"Mm... I guess I could be persuaded, then," she hummed. "Give it your best shot." She lay face down on the lounger.

"I will," he leered, and squirted cold lotion down her back to make her wriggle and squeak indignantly. Her indignation died instantly as his hands met her skin. As he gently massaged the lotion into her back, she relaxed completely, puddling under his touch, any faint remaining stresses melting away. He wasn't deliberately erotic, but heat rose under his fingertips and slithered along her synapses.

"Arms," he said, and took the weight on one palm so that she wouldn't have to exert herself; "and now legs."

Applying lotion to her legs was more arousing. Castle's hands gliding up and down over her calves was one thing, but as he rose over her knees and paid strict attention to the delicate skin of her inner thighs, she emitted a small, encouraging sound and curved into the touch. Castle restrained himself from leaning forward and placing a kiss on her leg – but only just. He also refrained from any overtly sexual actions, such as slipping a finger below the edge of the swimsuit. It cost him a lot of thinking about cold climates and snarling polar bears with huge fangs and claws.

Even thinking of fearsome, snarling animals didn't help when it came to her front. That swimsuit was made for sin, not swimming, and it was perfectly obvious from her sneaky peeks and smiles that Beckett had noticed his reactions. Of course, he had also noticed hers. His fingers lingered at the edges of the fabric, his palms grazed her skin, his thumbs only just missed the peaks of her nipples.

By the time he'd finished, both of them were breathing a little harder; Beckett was biting her lower lip, and Castle was...suffused. A cooling dip seemed indicated. He fell into the pool with some relief.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers, guest and named. Very much appreciated._


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

By dinner time, Castle and Beckett could barely keep their hands off each other. Castle had spent so much time in the water he resembled a hundred-year old prune; Beckett had nibbled her lip to shreds; and the tension around the pool was sky-high. It would take a single unguarded touch for it all to explode.

"Dinner?" Castle said.

"Sure. What are we having?"

"Chicken fajitas. Quick and easy."

"Great."

"Wine?"

"Yes, please."

She slid off the sun lounger and followed him to the kitchen, during which time she realised that she really, really wanted a shower.

"Have I time to get a shower?"

"Sure. I won't start cooking till you're done."

"I could cook."

"Nope. My kitchen. I cook."

Beckett disappeared to her shower with an offended flip of her hair. Clearly she thought she should be allowed to cook. Castle thought that till she could move totally freely, he should handle heavy, hot objects. Actually, he thought that he should handle one very particular hot object, but for the sake of her injuries, he wanted to do so in a comfortable bed, which was the _only_ reason they hadn't been thoroughly indecent earlier. Otherwise, he'd have followed her to the shower and they'd have had a really good time. And they'd have been clean at the end of it.

He decided that he should also have a shower, so as not to be sticky and disgusting. He was pretty sure that a lovely clean Beckett would want to snuggle up to a lovely clean Castle. After that, they could get dirty together.

He sped through the shower, and was placidly chopping peppers and onions when Beckett returned, fresh in a loose top and shorts. The top draped silkily over her form, and simply begged to be touched. Castle couldn't resist its pleadings in the slightest, and drew Beckett into his arm as he supervised the sizzling of the skillet. The top was as silky under his fingers as it had looked, and his hand roamed her side. Quite unbidden, his lips touched the top of her head. Her face turned up, mouth quirked, eyes softly mischievous, and he couldn't help but kiss her.

It wasn't till a sizzle from the skillet flicked his hand that he stopped.

"Dinner!" he squawked. "It'll burn!" He frantically shuffled the food with the spatula to preserve it. "I think we'd better eat," he said, and flipped soft tortillas on to a plate for Beckett to take out while he shovelled the fajita mix on to another. She returned for the salad bowl, Castle for plates and cutlery, and then for the wine, and shortly there were the sounds of happy munching and the quiet clink of wine glasses on the table.

"Delicious," Beckett said, happily replete. "Can I do the clear up?"

"Nope. It'll take me two minutes, and then I'll make coffee."

"You won't let me do anything," she grumped.

"Nope. I don't want anything to go wrong. I have plans for us, my dear Detective."

"Do you?" she flirted, peeping at him from under swept lashes. "How do you know I'll like your plans?"

"I'm pretty sure. But if you don't, we'll simply change it." She looked sceptically at him. "It starts with coffee."

"I like that bit."

"I'd call 9-1-1 if you didn't."

Castle efficiently cleared up, tutting at Beckett every time she made the slightest move to help. She tutted back, which had no effect at all, just like usual. Castle wouldn't even let her carry her own coffee: putting it all on a tray and carrying it round to the pool, as had also become usual.

Just as usual, when he put it down, she curled up next to him, nestled in the curve of his arm. _Not_ just as usual, he then lifted her into his lap, tipped her face up, and kissed her.

"Do you like that plan?" he teased, and kissed her again, before she could answer. Her response didn't come in words, her mouth being somewhat occupied, but by locking her hands around his back, and diving into the kiss. They'd kissed before, here, passionately, but now, late into the evening, under the stars, somehow, some way, it was more. Tongues explored and twined, hands roamed, lips were locked, and as the long-denied heat flared between them the neglected coffee cooled, forgotten.

Castle moved from Beckett's lush, hot mouth round to her neck, careful not to leave a mark, trailing a long, hot streak across her jaw, searching out the sensitive nerve at her ear, a tiny nibble on the lobe, and her head fell back as he explored, giving him permission and freedom. He held her close; her hands tight on his back, lost deep in the delight of kissing her without interruption, let or hindrance. Her familiar cherry scent was drawn deep into his lungs; the shape of her body fitted perfectly into his; they might have been made for each other. She moved her head, unfairly stopping his explorations, and took his mouth with certainty: her private playground. Her hands shifted, one coming round and sliding under his cotton t-shirt, finding warm skin and smooth muscle. Her fingers danced along his bottom rib, tugging the t-shirt up. Castle obeyed the unspoken order and flipped it off, and having been given such a clear hint, followed up by (much more carefully) disposing of Beckett's. He deeply appreciated the pretty bra underneath.

"I think we should go inside," he said reluctantly.

Beckett made a cross noise of disagreement, and followed up with a searing kiss and a movement of her hands that almost fried his brain.

"I don't want to get bitten by mosquitoes," he added, and stood up, which necessarily meant that Beckett stood too. "C'mon." He wrapped her in and walked her into the house, inadvertently abandoning the t-shirts.

"More plans?" Beckett muttered as she was walked into Castle's bedroom.

"Only if you want more plans. If not, you can snuggle down and go to sleep."

"What if I have plans?"

"I'm sure we can accommodate your plans too." He waggled his eyebrows lecherously. "Will I like your plans better than my plans?"

Beckett lost patience. "Kiss me, Castle," she growled. His name sounded more like _idiot_.

"That's your plan? How convenient. It's my plan too."

He kissed her before her irritation could form into something which would spoil the plan, and then, since they were now at a distance where he wouldn't do himself considerable damage in trying, swept her up into his arms and then laid her out on the bed to remove her shorts. It left her in the pretty bra and a pretty pair of matching panties in soft purple.

"See, I was right," he said smugly. "Sexy little scraps of silk under those soft, sloppy t-shirts." He raked hot eyes over her. "Designed to drive me wild." He sat down. "It's working," he added, leaned down and kissed her hard, then lifted off again. "Be mine?"

"If you'll be mine too."

"Always was. Always am. Always will be."

Her eyes were completely transparent, all the way down to her heart. "Me too," she said. "Just love me." She reached for him, still so carefully calibrated not to stretch the long scar down her side, set her hand on his waist, and waited for him.

For a long moment he only looked at her, his heart as clearly in his eyes as hers was, one thick finger delicately running around the livid knot at her breasts, along the slashed red wound of her surgery; and then he bent to take her mouth, lying alongside her with an arm slipping under her neck, bringing her into him, meeting her lips softly. Her hands roved, learning the planes of his body without haste, until he kissed down the valley between her breasts, above, then below, the bullet wound, downward to her sternum, the prominent ribs and sharp concavity between the jutting points of her hips, and stopped there, where she could roam the muscle of his shoulders without strain, cup his face and stroke his cheeks.

In a moment, he could rise up again and lavish attention on the small, pert mounds of her breasts. In a moment, he would. But in that moment, his head lightly pillowed at the base of her ribs, he was content simply to have her there with him. Her fingers stroked through his hair, playing gently – petting. He reached up, and caught one hand in one of his, repeated with the other, and balanced up on his elbow, their hands clasped. Just for that moment, everything was still.

And then he shifted up and their mouths met again and nothing was still or calm at all. They raided and ravaged, neither of them in control or in the lead, consumed by the ability to release all of the suppressed tension that had been dammed up since the day that they'd met, without having to hesitate or take care. Mouths went mad, fingers frantic, the scraps of clothing were stripped away and discarded without a thought. When his hand slipped between her legs she was already soaked, as she reached down he was full and hard: both of them desperate, and she pulled him above her and guided him home as he took her in one smooth, powerful thrust.

Everything stopped. He was perfect within her, above her, around her: she made a helpless little noise of sheer desire and satisfaction which he matched two octaves below, and then he moved, and she moved, and arched to him, and there was no pain when she gripped his shoulders and he touched between them where they joined slick and hot and then the world was lost.

There was no talking, yet, but their hands were clasped, breaths still panted out, bodies limp beside each other. Peace filled the room.

"Are you okay?" Castle finally asked, a little worried by Beckett's silence.

"Mmmm, yes," she hummed. "Tired. Need to clean up."

Castle forced his own tired, sated body to sit up, then stand up, and when he was sure his knees would hold, went into his opulent bathroom and started a bath running. He threw in a handful of bath salts – okay, so they were his, and she might not like them, but he felt that she might need them: he was pretty sure that sex wasn't on her list of physiotherapy exercises – and when the bath was full enough, switched it off and went back to the bedroom.

Beckett was sprawled out, completely unmoving, with her eyes shut.

"Wha'?" she mumbled.

"Bath," Castle said, and picked her up, conveyed her to the bathroom, and plopped her in the bath, only just avoiding a wave that would soak the floor.

"Oh – ohhhhh." She slid down into the warm water. Castle, never one to let an opportunity go begging (and also slightly concerned that she might fall asleep in situ), slipped in behind her and let her rest against him. Beckett wriggled slightly and then relaxed into his arms. "Nice," she yawned.

"You're too tired for a shower. Easier this way, even if it's a bit slower." She hummed at him, and her eyes drifted shut. Castle reached for a sponge, and gently washed the reachable areas without trying to arouse her (which was self-control worthy of wings, halo and harp, he thought), then leaned her forward and washed her back. "All done. Bed time. I've worn you out," he said, a fraction smugly.

"Wear _you_ out," she grumped under her breath, which Castle ignored as being totally untrue – for now. He heaved himself out of the bath, wrapped a towel around himself and then lifted her out to do the same for her. Of course, that meant that he could first cuddle and then dry (also known as stroke) her; but that done, she stumbled sleepily back to bed and was unconscious before he returned.

When she woke, she was alone. There was a dent in the other pillow, which still smelled faintly of Castle. She stole his robe in order to go through her morning routine, and soon appeared in the kitchen.

Castle wasn't there. She made herself coffee, and wandered out, to find him by the pool. He saw her, bounced up, took her coffee away, which was positively suicidal, and kissed her slowly and thoroughly, which stopped her thinking about killing him – as long as he gave her the coffee back afterwards.

He did. She took a long drink, then set it down and took a much longer draught of Castle's lips. He appeared somewhat stunned, so she did it again. Then she decided she liked it, so she had a third go. About that point, Castle recovered his brain, or at least a proportion of it, and managed to kiss her back.

Some time later, she discovered that her coffee was cold, by taking a gulp.

"I'll make more. And some pancakes."

Beckett merely produced a feline smile, and nodded.

"You'll need to come round to the table." She didn't want to. She was happily curled in the sun, basking. "That's where the pancakes will be. It's in the sun too." Oh, okay then. If she had to. He did make good pancakes, though maybe she ought to have made half of them? Maybe tomorrow. She uncurled and padded round to the table, to find a lavish display of pancakes, fruit, syrup, cream, pastries and coffee.

"Wow."

Castle smiled mischievously. "It's an edible thank you," he said, "for not falling asleep in the bath and drowning." He received an eye roll of true Beckett intensity, and snickered. "Dig in," he said, and she did.

* * *

The days passed quietly thereafter. Some days, they went to the range. Some days, they simply lazed by the pool. Beckett did her physio exercises – privately – every day, and gradually the scars became less livid and her range of movement and fitness increased. They spent their nights together, learning each other's bodies and what pleased them most, ending snuggled together: lax, sated and loving. Everything was almost perfect.

Almost. As long as Beckett didn't think about her father, and what he was doing. She hadn't heard a word from him since his text to say he was trying. She had to let him do it for himself, because she couldn't control or cure it, but it hurt. Every day that she stopped herself texting, every day in which she didn't get a message, it hurt.

Castle didn't say anything, but when she slipped off alone to walk on the beach, and came back tired, with reddened eyes, he was there to hold her close and provide the comfort and peace that she needed; when she woke in the night, and went out, returning much later, he was there to curl against and, even sleeping, lend her strength.

"If it wasn't for you," she murmured sadly, "I don't know what I'd do."

"Cope. You would manage somehow."

She slumped down on the couch for their nightly coffee.

"I wish he'd text."

So did Castle, but he couldn't rush in where Beckett feared to tread. The last time he'd interfered in her life without consent, it hadn't gone well – understatement of the century – and he'd promised her he wouldn't do anything she didn't want. While she bit her nails to the elbows waiting, he could do no less. Though he – and she – was desperate to do something, anything, they held fast. And so they both waited, not daring to hope, and in that waiting kept each other safe.

* * *

In Manhattan, Jim was exerting grim resolution not to fall off the wagon again. Still on leave, he forced himself to AA, forced himself to see his sponsor daily, forced himself not to enter bars, or scan the liquor shelves in stores. It hurt. Every moment he had to accept that it wasn't seven years, he was counting in days now, it hurt. Every moment, though, he knew that if he ever wanted to face Katie as a father again; if he ever wanted to regain her respect; if... if he wanted to walk her down the aisle towards Rick Castle...; if any of those things were to occur, then he had to persevere.

For his own self-respect, he had to persevere. He had done it before, and Katie had come back to him, forgiven him, accepted his amends, and they had re-established such a good relationship that _he_ had been the one she asked to look after her when she left hospital.

Until he lapsed, and she left, and ran to Rick Castle. Sober, he wondered suddenly why she hadn't _started_ with Rick. She'd certainly run there fast enough later on. He'd never thought to ask, but then, she'd said she was talking to him from quite early on in their stay at the cabin. Still, that was a question to which he wouldn't mind an answer, some day.

He wanted to talk to her, and to Rick. He had an apology to make to Rick, he knew, and unpleasant as it would be to say sorry, he had to do so. But...not yet. When he'd been dry for more than a few days. When he'd managed thirty days, he promised himself. When he'd managed thirty days, he would call.

* * *

The day he reached thirty days dry, back at work, which helped because he had to concentrate on the niceties of anti-trust law, which didn't leave much room for thinking about anything else, he opened his phone, closed his office door to indicate the need for privacy, and dialled.

"Katie?"

"Dad?"

"It's been thirty days dry," he rushed out. "I promised myself I'd call when it was thirty days." There was silence on the other end. "Katie?" More silence. "Katie, are you there?"

Finally she answered. "That's great." Ah. There was a break in her voice. "That's so great."

Jim could hear a rumble in the background. It sounded comforting. Then there was a rustle. Then Katie spoke again. "I'm so glad." Jim would have bet, from thirty-some years of parenthood, that she was close to tears. It had really mattered to her. It really had. A small thorn dissolved, unnoticed.

"We'll" – _we?_ , thought Jim – "be back in the city tomorrow. It was going to be next week, but... I want to see you, Dad." There was a hitch. "Um... if you've got time?"

What? If _he_ had time? If she hadn't left – and it had taken a _lot_ of talking to Ed for Jim really to get the point – he'd never have fixed himself.

"Of course I've got time. How about you come by at seven – my apartment?"

"Sure. Yeah. See you tomorrow." Her voice fell. "Bye, Dad."

"Bye."

* * *

"Thirty days. He waited thirty days." She sniffed, and dabbed her eyes.

"A long time."

"You don't get it."

"Mm?" Castle was confused.

"Thirty days is big. A month. It's real. A day, or a week, that's really good – anything is really good – but thirty days is real commitment." She mopped her eyes again. "If you can't come back for the day, can you give me a ride to the station tomorrow?"

"Of course I'm coming back. I'm not leaving you to go it alone now."

She turned into him. "It's not... he was so unfair to you."

"I can handle your dad." He grinned at her. "But right now, I'd much rather handle you." There was a disgusted snort. "Snuggle in." He wrapped arms around her, and petted. "It'll be okay," he said seriously.

"And if it's not?"

"You've got me. We'll be okay."

She slumped against his chest, and stayed silent for some time.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers. Last chapter on Sunday: time uncertain (in transit)._


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

"Are you sure you want to come?" Beckett said, washing the coffee mugs in her apartment.

"Yes," Castle said firmly. "Anyway, I've been invited."

"You what? When?"

"Text. This morning." He showed her the message, to prove it.

"Okay..." Beckett sounded thoroughly dubious. "Why?"

"No idea."

"I don't want a fight."

"I wouldn't!" Castle said angrily.

"I didn't mean _you_."

"Oh." He subsided, and took cognisance of her drawn face and tired eyes. "I can look after myself," he reassured. "What your dad does isn't a reflection on you. I'll be right here with you." He hugged her. "We'd better go."

"I guess." But she didn't immediately move from her position, leaning on him for a moment.

The journey wasn't long, but with every yard both Castle and Beckett became more tense. Arrival was almost a relief: at least, there would be some form of resolution. Beckett tapped on the door, managing her usual brisk rap, pulling on a calm face. Castle stood a little behind her: not quite protective, certainly not indifferent or relaxed.

"Katie." Jim's face lit up to see her. "Rick." A note of constraint crept in. "Come in."

Fussing with cups and coffee masked everyone's discomfort for a few moments, but it didn't last for long enough. Eventually Jim broke the awkward silence.

"I..." he stopped, swallowed, and finally met Castle's eyes. "I owe you an apology, Rick. I was" – he hitched – "drunk, but I should never have said or thought what I did."

"It's okay," Castle replied, totally uncomfortable and hoping to shut the conversation down.

"No. It wasn't okay. You couldn't have stopped her, and none of it was ever your fault." Beckett winced. "It wasn't yours either. It was the gunman's fault. No-one else's."

Jim stared down at his hands. Castle had no idea what to say. Beckett had shrunk into herself: whatever Jim had just said, she'd heard it as attributing blame to her.

"Katie... Katie, look at me." She didn't, staring at her own hands just as her father had. "It wasn't you. It wasn't ever you."

"If I hadn't been shot and _died_. If I hadn't slipped... You were fine till that happened."

"You didn't shoot yourself, did you?" Jim snapped. "You're _supposed_ to investigate crime. You never give up on the victims. It's why I'm so proud of what you do. I don't blame you. I blame the gunman for shooting you. The _criminal_. And me drinking – that's on me. Not you."

Katie sat there, motionless. Rick slipped an arm around her, and with one look dared Jim to comment. He didn't. The expression on Rick's face reminded him of that ghastly time in the hospital, somehow: the same determination that the world would bend to Rick's will and Katie would be okay.

"If you hadn't left, I wouldn't have stopped. If you had stayed, and tried to stop me – it would have been like the first time, all over again. I wouldn't have stopped. I'd have hidden it, and pretended, and lied. It was the right thing. You had to do it." He paused. "But I might not have believed it, if... if you hadn't left the watch."

Her shoulders tightened: it was clear she'd rather have been anywhere but there.

"You were _right_. I'm so sorry I drove you to it, Katie, but you had to."

"Had to run away."

"You had to _leave me to it_. That's not running away. That's exactly what you should have done."

Jim didn't understand why Katie was white and trying to pull away from Rick, who wasn't having it. "You _didn't_ ," Rick said, which made no sense at all. "We talked about this. Do I need to get O'Leary back to tell you?" Whoever that was. Anyway, Katie stopped making motions away from Rick, which was a relief, because Jim really didn't need the pair of them having a fight over his coffee table.

"You did the right thing, Katie. You know that. You put me back on track. I needed that."

Beckett really, really wanted to go. Now. The more her dad tried to tell her she'd done the right thing, the more she wondered if he really meant it. Finally he stood up, and she thought that it was finally over. She wanted out, where she could lean into Castle and then not think for quite some time. She stood up, too.

"Sit down," her father said. "I'll be back in a moment." He disappeared. Beckett looked miserably at Castle.

"You're wrong," Castle said flatly. "You don't do nothing but run away. Stop thinking like that."

"He doth protest too much," she riposted bitterly.

"Nope, he's trying to make you listen."

The noise of Jim's steps stopped the argument without either conceding any ground.

"Katie... would you... um... do you think you could take the watch back?"

Her jaw plummeted. She couldn't answer, couldn't form a single word or thought. She simply stared at him. Castle's arm tightened about her as the silence stretched on, and on.

"It's okay," Jim began.

"No." Jim paled, and crumpled. "I want it back. I _want_ to wear it."

Jim extended the hand with the watch in, but it was Castle who took it and fastened it round Beckett's wrist. She regarded him strangely, but didn't comment. Yet again, Jim thought that he was missing some communication between them, but didn't ask.

"I think it's time we went," Beckett said, not long later.

"Okay," Jim agreed, a little disappointed.

"But... next week... maybe dinner?"

"Sure," he said, much happier. "Just name the day."

Arrangements were swiftly made. Castle didn't commit: feeling that Beckett and her dad might need time on their own. That seemed to be okay with everyone: dinner was obviously pretty casual and from what wasn't being said about it, would probably involve takeout. Must have been a Beckett family tradition.

On the journey back, Beckett simply leaned against him. She didn't take his hand or snuggle in: disconnected and unspeaking. Castle thought that she was shell-shocked, and wondered what she'd expected, that an initially uncomfortable meeting which had ended well, had left her so lost in her own head.

He steered her out of the taxi and up into her apartment – he'd thought about the loft when they came back that morning, but Beckett had rather tentatively asked that they go to her apartment, and so they had – where he cuddled her in against his shoulder and stroked her back, walking her to her couch and plopping them both down.

He kept stroking over Beckett's bent head, and eventually she straightened up.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." She looked at her wrist, and managed a tired smile. "Better to have it back."

"Mmm," Castle hummed agreeably.

"It's a promise." She touched it gently. "I didn't expect..." she trailed off, but Castle heard the rest clearly. _That he'd give it back_.

"He believes in you."

"Huh?"

"I _told_ you this, and so did your dad. If you hadn't left the watch, he wouldn't have fixed himself. He had to do it, but you showed him why. He trusts you to do what's best in the circumstances." He hugged her, and finally she nestled in.

"Why did you take it from him?"

Castle didn't answer.

"Castle?"

Truthfully, he wasn't entirely sure why. Interfering between Becketts...was a dangerous game, as he'd already discovered – and that time he'd been _asked_ to interfere by one of them.

"Erm..." he said intelligently.

"Not an answer."

He knew that. "Um..." which wasn't any better... "Um... I... um..." He stared around for inspiration, and finally landed on Beckett's face. "Because... your dad needs to know that we stand together. He can't ask me to do things without you knowing up front. He shouldn't ever have asked me to stop you _for him_ , and without talking to you himself. So... um... me taking the watch and putting it on your wrist was sort of saying that without saying it but I don't know if your dad would get it because obviously you didn't so maybe it was too subtle..."

"I... don't see."

Castle, having blurted out a very confused set of emotions without clarifying thoughts, couldn't help. "Oh," he said. "Um... I'll stand with you. No-one else. Like... um... well, you made your stand when your dad started drinking again and I'm standing with you so that when you need someone I'm there."

"Uh?"

"Even you occasionally need to lean on someone." Suddenly he grinned at her. "As long as I get to lean on you too. Metaphorically speaking, of course. If I leaned on you with all my weight you'd fall over."

"Try upping your gym time, then," she snarked, but there was a sparkle in her eyes, oddly sheened, and then the liquid puddled and she turned away, only for Castle to pull her back.

"Come here," he coaxed. "Just come here."

"He doesn't hate me. I really thought he'd hate me because it was the same thing all over again."

"He doesn't. But even if he had, you've got me now, and we'd have worked it out."

There was a slightly soggy silence, and a sniff.

"Can we go home now?" she said.

"Home?"

"Back to the Hamptons. Just till next week."

"Sure. Right now, or tomorrow morning?"

"Now?"

"Okay, but we won't get there till nearly midnight."

" 'S fine. I just..." she looked down. "I need the peace. Manhattan's so loud..."

He was taken straight back to the hospital, when she'd said exactly that – and left without him days later. But she'd said _we_ a moment ago, and that made all the difference in the world. He'd become part of her peace. His heart swelled and overflowed.

"I just wanna be somewhere that's us. No complications."

"Okay. We'll go home." He didn't mention her calling his house home, because he hoped that it would be the shape of things to come. He didn't mention that she simply wanted to be them – an _us_ – either, because after all she'd said she loved him. Instead, he held all the tiny proofs and clues close to his heart, and took her hand as they left.

A couple of hours later (speed limits being for other people) they were back in the Hamptons. Surprisingly, at least to Castle, Beckett hadn't slept on the way, though she hadn't made conversation either. The sound of her thinking had been louder than the engine.

"We're back," he said unnecessarily, to break the silence.

"Yeah." She stepped out of the car, and then went straight through the house to overlook the beach, under the stars and the moonlight, where Castle caught up with her. By then, she was sitting on the dry grass, so he sat down next to her. She reached for his fingers, and set the linked digits on her knee, her thumb stroking over the back of his hand.

"If I had come here first," she said quietly, "maybe none of it would ever have happened. If I'd had the guts."

Castle stopped to think before he spoke. "If you had come here first, you might not have broken your arm – no steps to fall down – but your dad might have relapsed just the same. It was the shooter who set it all in motion."

"But if I'd been braver..."

"You _were_ brave. Remember what you told me. You needed to fix yourself so that you weren't simply a clinging vine; to be strong enough. You were that strong weeks ago, when O'Leary came." He paused. "You were strong enough, brave enough, to leave your dad to fix himself." He let his words sink in, and she eased, swapping hands and curling her other arm around him, for the first time, above the level of his shoulders.

"But you were there. All the way. And... if you hadn't said you wouldn't call if I didn't talk... I wouldn't have realised. I'd just have kept on in the same old pattern." She stopped.

"I wanted to call you. I thought about calling you" –

"Just like I did about Dad" –

"Yes. But... I had to be strong enough not to. Otherwise... it really would be me propping you up and we both agreed right back in the hospital that that would never work. No clinging. Not you to me and not me to you."

"Done," she said, and kissed him to seal the vow.

"Done," he agreed.

"You need to know, though..." she began, after a pause, "that even when you weren't there you were. Knowing what you said... even before I called you from the cabin, you were all the reasons – you were the _only_ reason – I needed to get fixed."

He couldn't help pulling her in, kissing her frantically, each holding the other as close as they held to life. To hear that he was her every reason, all her reasons... she loved him, she'd said so, but he couldn't doubt it now.

"You were everything," she said, and kissed him as passionately as he had her, pushing him to his back on the grass and falling over him. His arms met around her, hers curled around his neck, and for a long time there were no more words, only actions.

"We should go in," Castle said, eventually.

"I guess..." Beckett said from her position pillowed on his chest, head tucked under his chin, but she didn't sound convinced.

"More comfortable."

"Mmm, I'm comfy here."

"You might be, but there's a rock sticking into my shoulder and the ground is hard."

Beckett wiggled. "The ground's hard?" she queried. "Guess I must be on the ground, then."

Castle snickered. "Yeah." He sat up, to Beckett's disgruntled muttering, but kept her on his lap where he could cuddle her affectionately. "C'mon. Let's go in. It's really late, and our bed is a lot more comfortable than the grass."

"I like it out here," she said, and then her brain caught up to her ears. " _Our_ bed?"

"Yep," Castle said confidently. "Ours. The one we're sharing."

He stood up, and pulled her up after him, no longer needing to take as much care as in earlier weeks, finishing with her draped against his front where she could conveniently be kissed again and then towed inside. He could see the emotions in her eyes, and he wanted her to be in their bed, where he could love her and she could love him. He didn't want the day to end.

Inside, in his bedroom, Castle drew Beckett back to him, stroking down her back, returning with the edge of her silky top in his hands, exposing the skin and then lifting the fabric easily over her head; opening her pants to push them from still-too-slim hips. She delicately opened his shirt, flicked it from his torso, unfastened belt and zipper and let his pants fall too, entangling with hers on the floor. She stretched up a little, and kissed him gently, teasingly, encouraging him – not that he needed any encouragement – to open for her, to run a hand into her hair, to hold her close and let her feel his arousal, to gaze down at her and in that gaze to let her see his love.

In her gaze, she knew he could see the same: absolute love and total trust. He was – had been for so much longer than she'd admitted – her Castle, her rock. She would be his rock, too. Her kiss turned possessive, demanding, staking her claim and marking her conquest; he responded in kind, swept her up and laid her down, joined her and kissed her again, sure, searching, hard and deep.

Finally, she could bring her hands up to his face without a care, grip his shoulders, play or tug or roll without hindrance or hesitation. His body was there for her to take and explore, and she did: running a long path down his flank to his hip and then finding the familiar shape and size of him, fitted to her hand, the soft velvety skin and the iron beneath it. Just the same, he also found her open to him, removed her bra: palming her breast and then setting his mouth to it: one side, then the other, laving and sucking and teasing, driving her up as she drove him.

Boxers and panties were discarded, fingers moved intimately through damp heat and sensitive nerves; over full weight and distended veins, and finally she pulled him over and down to her and brought him in: two made one, flesh on flesh, bodies and mouths joined.

And then there was nothing but the movement and the magnificence and then quiet.

Cleaned up, they slept, twined together, and woke, together, to the clean, fresh light of a new morning.

"We've got another two weeks," Castle said, over breakfast.

"I need to go back and have dinner with Dad, and requalify, and pass all the tests," Beckett pointed out.

Castle made a face. "It's nicer here."

"You want to shadow me, don't you?"

"Yeah... if the new boss lets me." He stopped. "The Mayor'll get me back in, if she doesn't."

"I need to requalify before I'm allowed back, so I need to get back to the city."

"I guess." His face lightened. "I'll be shadowing you all over again."

"It might be a bit different."

"Yeah." He grinned. "At the end of the day I'll get to leave with you. All over again, every day."

"At the end of each day, I'll get to tell you I love you. All over again."

 _ **Fin.**_

* * *

 _Thank you to everyone who's come along for the ride, and to reviewers guest and named. Very much appreciated._

 _I will be back with some short stories in due course._

 _If you haven't already, check out my original novel, Death in Focus, by SR Garrae._


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